Zambezi

2-2

In the browser’s search field he typed in Mana Pools National Park – the place where Miranda had been doing her research. He clicked on a site that boasted maps. The park, he learned, was in the far north of Zimbabwe, in the Zambezi River Valley, below Lake Kariba and the dam of the same name. Mana Pools was a World Heritage-listed area, valued for its scenic beauty and abundant wildlife. Mana was a local word for four, referring to the number of large pools of water which were cut off from the river after the dam was constructed. jed was surprised to learn from his web surfing that tourists were allowed to walk freely without an escort around the park­ something that other national parks did not allow. Miranda had told him that she was accompanied by an armed guard when she did her research. He wondered now if she had lied to help convince him she was safe.

The four websites he investigated were all run by private safari companies and offered ‘exclusive’, which he took to mean expensive, guided tours into the Zambezi River Valley and Mana Pools National Park.

He took out his hardcover Army notebook and a pen and started writing. He didn’t know how long he would be in northern Zimbabwe. As a military man, he did his best to make a logical judgment of the situ­ation and what he was setting out to achieve. His mission was to find out what had happened to his daughter and discover some concrete evidence of her fate. From the scant information available to him, it seemed there was litde reason to be optimistic.

Under the heading Police he made a note to contact the local station. From his brief internet surfing he deduced the cops who investigated Miranda’s death would most likely be based at either Kariba or Chirundu, the two towns nearest the national park. Kariba was further away from Mana Pools, but appeared to be the larger centre.

Miranda was his next entry. He needed to find out her movements in and around the park, to talk to other people she would have come into contact with. Rangers? Colleagues? Prof Wallisvisiting Zimbabwe?

Scene. He wanted to see where Miranda had been camping and to conduct his own investigation there. He had done tracking courses in the jungles of Central America, but he knew there was never a sub­stitute for local knowledge and skills. Hire local guide/tracker.

Logistics. He needed to be flexible and self­ sufficient. He would have no choice in Mana Pools, as there appeared to be no shops or restaurants in the park. He needed a vehicle, tent, camping gear, food, water. Some of the basics were in his Alice pack-the common name for the capacious US Army-issue LC-1 rucksack- which was with his checked-in luggage.

He had a sleeping bag, fatigues, mess tins, water bottles, combat boots and other odds and ends that would come in handy. He wished he could take a weapon with him, but from what he had read he would have to surrender any firearms on entering the national park, or risk being shot on sight by an anti­ poaching patrol.

His mobile phone chirped and he fished it from his uniform coat pocket. He made a mental note to call his service provider before he got on the plane to check whether the device would work in Africa.

‘Banks,’ he said.

‘Jed, glad I caught you. It’s Tom Cookson. How are you keeping, buddy? I’m so sorry to hear about Miranda.’

Jed was surprised. Tom Cookson was a retired lieutenant colonel, an ex-Green Beret officer who had been invalided out of the military due to injury. Jed recalled he had taken up a civilian analyst’s position of some sort with the defence department and was working in the Pentagon. ‘How did you find out, sir?’

Cookson hesitated. ‘It’s been in all the papers. Where are you, Jed?’

The last time Jed had seen Cookson was inside Iraq. Tom, then a captain, had been in charge of Jed’s patrol, until he had trodden on an anti-personnel mine. The last Jed had seen of him was when he slid him into the medevac Black Hawk.

‘Her name hasn’t been released – at Patti’s request,’ Jed said, immediately curious.

‘Aw, hell, Jed, I’ll level with you. I saw a report from State. Her name was in the regular sitrepout of the Africa desk. I’m so sorry. She was such a bright kid.’

‘You’re talking like she’s dead, sir.’

‘Cut the “sir” crap, Jed. The report was pretty conclusive.’

‘Yeah. Well, thanks for the call. I’ll be sure and let you know if I find anything different.’ Jed was irrationally angry at the man. He knew Miranda probably was dead but, like Patti, part of him refused to accept what he had been told.

‘Hold on, Jed. What do you mean, “if you find anything different”? You’re not going to Africa, are you?’

‘What if I was? Is this you or the Pentagon asking?’

‘Jed, I owe you one. I would have died if you’d fol­ lowed my orders and left me in the minefield, but you crawled through and dragged me out.’

‘No big deal.’

‘Bullshit. You should have got the Congressional Medal of Honor for that stunt. God knows, I recom­mended you for it. But, Jed, I believe the best thing you can do for Miranda is to stay at home and com­ fort Patti. State will get news to you if they hear anything more about her.’

‘What is this bullshit, Tom? What are you trying to tell me? Are you warning me off? Since when does the Government of the United States of America investi­gate lion attacks?’

‘Jesus, jed. I’m just trying to help an old friend. Sittight on this one … that’s my advice to you.’

‘Yeah, Tom? ‘Well, screw your advice, sir, he wanted to add, but held his tongue. ‘It’s my daughter who’s missing and I’m not waiting around while some pimple-faced Ivy League prick from the Timbuk­ f*****g-tu embassy conducts some sorry-assed excuse of an investigation.’

‘Jed …’ Cookson’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Look, I can’t talk any more, but just be careful, OK?’

The call dropped out and jed walked back to the bar. He ordered another beer, downed half of it and forced himself to be calm. What did Tom mean ‘just be care­ful’? He supposed Cookson was warning him about the general security situation, but, helL Jed had just spent six months in a country where people had actively been trying to kill him. How dangerous could Africa be?

He reopened his notebook and wrote Cookson – check.

Jed upended his beer glass, steeling himself as he felt the first twinges of nerves that always preceded flying. He picked up his suit bag and walked into the men’s room. In a cramped cubicle he changed out of his Class A uniform into comfortable travel clothes – a short-sleeved navy Ralph Lauren shirt, lightweight tan trousers and hiking boots. It would be hot where he was heading, and it was definitely not a place where he could wear a US Army dress uniform. He needed a shower and a bed to sleep in. He would get neither for more than twenty hours. He folded his uniform and gleaming patent leather jump boots into his bag and zipped it shut.

He left the cubicle and checked his reflection in the mirror. He’d shaved off his beard prior to leaving Afghanistan and his chin stood out white compared to his cheeks. He didn’t feel as though he was getting older-he was still in excellent physical shape -but his face showed all its forty years and then some. He closed his eyes and saw Miranda again. He couldn’t lose her.

Jed walked through the brightly lit airport terminal, past eager holiday travellers and grey-faced men and women in business suits. He had nothing in common with any of them.

It was probably his imagination, he supposed, but the immigration officer seemed to be taking a long time to inspect his passport. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

The officer looked up at him but said nothing as he continued typing on his hidden console. jed checked his watch. The final boarding call had been made five minutes earlier.

At last the officer looked up and said, ‘How long are you intending on staying in Africa, sir?’

Jed felt like telling the man it was none of his damned business. ‘I don’t know. A couple of weeks, maybe more.’

‘I need to know countries and duration, sir.’

This had never happened to jed before, although most of his international travel was courtesy of the USAF’s Military Airlift Command and the places he tended to visit didn’t require passports or customs declarations.

‘South Africa for one night. Zimbabwe for, say, two weeks. It depends.’

‘It depends on what, sir?’

Jed was close to the brink. ‘It depends on how goddamned long I want to spend in the country. Look, buddy, my flight is boarding.’

‘It’s not my fault, sir, if you haven’t left enough time to dear immigration.’

Jed wished he had his nine-millimetre with him. The man tapped away on the keyboard again, then looked up and smiled insincerely as he handed back jed’s passport. ‘Have a nice flight, sir.’

Jed nodded and walked past the desk. When he turned and looked over his shoulder the immigration official was ignoring the next person in the queue and talking into a telephone.

‘Would you like a drink from the bar, sir?’ the flight attendant asked as the aircraft levelled out.

‘Scotch on the rocks, and a beer, please,’ Jed said. HeCl slept for three hours on the flight from Boston to Amsterdam, Holland, where he’d picked up his connection to Johannesburg, on KLM Royal Dutch Airlines. He covered a yawn with his hand. It would be three flights over three continents before he made Zimbabwe.

The immaculately groomed young Dutchman gave a large smile as he handed over the drinks and opened the can of beer. ‘My pleasure, sir. Just holler when you need another.’

‘I think he likes you,’ the woman seated next to Jed whispered as the flight attendant moved past them to the next row.

Jed smiled. ‘Not my type.’

‘Mine either, he’s too young for me. I’m Eveline, by the way.’

‘Jed.’ The woman was well of£ judging by the gold earrings and necklace. In her late fifties, or early six­ ties. Still attractive, and a real looker in her day, Jed imagined. He didn’t really want to get into conversa­tion, but felt it would be rude to cut her off straightaway. ‘You’re South African?’

‘I live there, but I was born in Rhodesia – Zimbabwe to you. Just been visiting some friends in the States. We Zimbos are scattered all over the world these days.’

‘I’m heading for Zimbabwe.’

‘Do you hunt, or are you going on a photographic safari?’

‘Neither. Family business to attend to.’

‘It’s just that most of the Americans I’ve met who have the gumption to travel to our part of the world seem to be hunters.’

‘I thought that was pretty much out of vogue these days.’

Eveline shook her head. ‘No, no, jed. Hunting’s alive and well in southern Africa. In Zim, it’s one of the few activities that still brings in hard currency. The local people get a cut of the proceeds as well. You’ll find we’re not as politically correct as other parts of the globe, although we’re very conscious of conserv­ing our wildlife. If we can make some money out of it on the side, well, all the better.’

Jed nodded. ‘What about the Zambezi Valley, around Mana Pools National Park. Do you know the area?’

‘Know it? I practically grew up there. You hear a lot of people talk about God’s own country, but let me tell you, Mana Pools is it. Garden of Eden. One of the last truly wild places left on this earth. Are you going there?’