~~ Hartley St Claire ~~

A young black boy entered the tent, bearing a tall glass of lager. He placed the beer on the table in front of St Claire who dismissed him with a curt nod. The youth, recognising the mood, was only too happy to escape the great Bwana Game’s presence.

St Claire slugged back the beer, leaving a thin line of froth hanging from his moustache. He swiped at it with his hand and slouched forward, elbows on knees, chin resting on his knuckles, brooding.

Minutes later, a burst of drunken laughter had him lifting his head to glare through the tent doorway at the table under the trees. He studied the group with a sentiment bordering on intense dislike.  There were six of them, four Americans, a Canadian and his wife.  Out of the six of them, only the Canadian had been sober enough to take hunting that morning.  Now, eight hours later, expressions rapt, the Americans were hanging off Mackenzie’s every vibrating twang as he boasted how he had taken the Kudu right in the heart with the perfect shot.

Hartley shook his head in frustration.  How convenient to forget the confused and exhausted state of the animal or that it had presented the Canadian a perfect target for the third time that morning. His gaze slid across to Monica, the Canadian’s young wife, and his mouth twitched upward when he saw how bored she was. This gratified him somewhat. Clearly, Monica Mackenzie was not duped, as the others so clearly were, by her portly husband’s distorted version of the hunt.

His eyes lingered for a moment on the delectable Mrs Mackenzie before shifting across to Nina, sitting beside Monica Mackenzie.  She too was looking bored to the teeth.  He studied his wife for a long, thoughtful, moment.

Hartley St Claire interlocked his fingers and raised his hands above his head .  He stretched as hard as he could, willing away the pain of his aching muscles and pulling his mind away from moody reflections on Nina. Days like this made him wonder why he had ever become a game hunter. Mackenzie’s ineptness was inexcusable. The conditions could not have been more perfect. The feeding bull had moved obligingly to within two hundred and fifty yards of the hide, had stood smack in the centre of the clearing, completely oblivious to the hunter.

He had quietly suggested Mackenzie use controlled expanding .300 calibre bullets of approximately 180 grains – in his opinion more than adequate for an animal that size. ‘Aim for the heart,’ he had softly reminded the man. ‘Milk the trigger,’ he had whispered, as the kudu raised its head to sniff uneasily at the air. ‘Don’t snatch at it,’ he instinctively groaned, when the barrel jerked sideways slamming the bullet into the gut. ‘Quickly now, while he’s stunned, hold your breath. Ease out. Fire! Don’t bloody flinch!’ he had bellowed in frustration as the second bullet sliced through the neck of the fleeing buck, causing insufficient muscular shock to drop the kudu.

‘Are you using bloody solids?’ he had growled in exasperation.

‘Maybe.  It’s the heat,’ Mackenzie had whined.

‘Bugger! he had snarled.

He had instructed his gunbearer to escort Mackenzie back to the Land Rover, while he and Thomas, his tracker, set off after the injured animal.  They found it lying exhausted in tall grass. Swinging his rifle to his shoulder, he had aimed for a head shot. But in that split-second the wind changed in the buck’s favour and, alerted to the danger, it was off and running, the shot going wide.

Even in its weakened state, the kudu managed to lead them on a zigzag course through tangled thorn scrub and high grass, often doubling back on its own spoor, never allowing for a decent shot.

An hour later, and mostly due to confusion through pain and loss of blood, it broke cover close to the Land Rover. The Canadian was lying back on the bonnet, enjoying the shade of an African ebony. Spotting the kudu, he had snatched up his gun and, to Hartley’s sheer frustration, fired the perfect shot, smack in the heart. The extra time had clearly helped sober Mackenzie up.

What really irked him, Hartley decided, as he rose from his chair, was not that he had been forced to track down the kudu to put it out of its misery – that was part and parcel of his job – it was the fact that the earlier shots had been child’s play, even for an amateur of Mackenzie’s calibre.

Even more frustrating was that, over a two-day period prior to the hunt, he’d had Mackenzie and the rest of this affluent motley crew endlessly practice dry firing; drumming into them the single most important aspect of good shooting, co-ordination between eye, trigger finger, and breathing.  He had insisted on them using a crosshair reticle telescopic sight in order to better judge the accuracy of their bullet and had taught them how to adjust accordingly. He had kept them at it until they knew their trigger pressure to the last gramme. Told them not to hold the target for too long, to hold their breath, exhale slowly, steady, and fire!

Hartley slammed his fist on the table, his mood far more belligerent than was warranted by the hunting fiasco of that morning. He glared at the radio-transmitter in front of him and considered, not for the first time, how many Ngorongoro rhino horns had been required to pay for such a powerful bit of equipment.

It certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Joss Delaney, the local game ranger, who had remarked on it during one of his regular visits. Hartley had given Delaney an enigmatic smile, accompanied by a helpless shrug. ‘A present, Joss old chap, from an eternally grateful client. Too much money and all that. Could hardly turn the fellow down. I’m sure you understand?’

Privy to the quality of client Hartley usually attracted on his safaris, Delaney seemed to accept the explanation, even though this piece of equipment was far more powerful, even by military standards, than could possibly be needed by any game hunter.

Turning abruptly, he strode from the tent towards the trees. He walked beneath the welcome shade to the edge of the escarpment and stood gazing down at the forty miles of sparkling lake that merged with the distant horizon; the blues blending so perfectly that no defining line was visible between sky and earth.

The placid beauty of the lake had him realising, not for the first time, how much he would miss Manyara; its hippo pools, its tree-climbing lions – always a surprise to his clients – and the enormous variety of wading birds that flocked in their hundreds to feed in the alkaline waters.  Then again, he reminded himself, Lake Kariba equalled Lake Manyara for breathtaking beauty and that was where Zariba Game was.

Hartley stood on the edge of the escarpment and indulged himself in thoughts of the luxurious treetop cabins he had recently had built at Zariba Game, each boasting spectacular views over the largest manmade lake in the world. Each one designed for total privacy, with state of the art security, an important requirement for the special visitors he hoped to attract; Heads of State, renowned writers, actors and, of course, the cherry on the top, the hunting mad Royalty.

Zariba Game was the finest wildlife sanctuary in Southern Rhodesia, if not the whole of southern Africa; just as it had been in his grandfather’s time.

Francis St Claire, his grandfather, had been a tough wily old bird, one of the few white settlers to receive land concessions from the Ndebele King, Lobengula. Through fair means or foul, he had gradually added to his tract of wild country, until it was so vast that even the old man himself had been uncertain of its boundaries.

Francis had prided himself on being one of the finest game hunters around. Unfortunately his son, Linden, hadn’t inherited the old man’s skills. A sickly child, he was sent to boarding school in South Africa at age twelve. Linden returned to Rhodesia as a young adult, married, and went into banking. His father’s land meant only one thing to him – money!

However, things had not turned out quite as Linden had expected. At his father’s death, some twenty years later, he found himself paying some of the best lawyers in South Africa, friends from his school days, to disprove the legality of his father’s will; for Francis St Claire had not left his land to his son but to his grandson, Hartley.

Linden never forgave his father for this, nor did he forgive his son for inheriting what he believed to be rightfully his. When his lawyers failed to win the land back, Linden, deeply embittered, enlisted the services of the Rhodesian Government.

Keen to get their hands on this vast tract of prime real estate, government officials had dug deep in the archives hoping to disprove Francis St Claire’s legal title.  They never did, for Francis St Claire had been no fool. He’d had the foresight to pass on to his grandson the official certificate signed by Lobengula.

The death of Linden, due to ill health, finally put to rest the battle between father and son.  Not a moment too soon, as far as Hartley St Claire was concerned. The legal wrangle had strapped him of his entire savings and more, making the last five years touch and go.  Certainly not helped by Mau Mau rampages, which had resulted in drastically reducing the opulent clientèle to his safari business. The situation had been further exacerbated by recently introduced hunting laws, which he could not afford to ignore as it would result in immediate lose of membership to the East African Professional Hunters Association; an elite organisation that gave him unrestricted licence to assist clients in the hunting of dangerous game and which also assured his affluent visitors that they were employing the best.

Hartley’s thoughts slid from Zariba Game to Tumaini, to Tumaini’s associate Patrick, and the Arab, Ahmad Abd Allah Ibn Bakr As-Salih and it came to him, more sharply than usual, how intricately his life had become intertwined with theirs. This realisation did not sit at all well with him but as much as he disliked it, it was the only way he would achieve his dream of running the largest private game park in Africa; ten thousand square miles of permanent waterholes, rolling hills, deep valleys and lush grass.

He let forth a deep sigh. How many clients like Mackenzie was he going to have to endure? Was it really worth it, in the scheme of things?  How ludicrous to put his life at risk traipsing through ninety-seven degree heat after a highly volatile animal, wounded by an incompetent marksman, under the influence of alcohol and, to top it off, using incorrect bullets. He pushed the thought quickly aside.  No, Mackenzie was an idiot.  A drunkard with too much money.  At Zariba Game, the calibre of client would be nothing like Mackenzie.

Spinning on his heel, he strode rapidly through the trees, heading for the mess tent. He entered the mosquito-screen flap and growled, ‘Lete chai na maziwa a bloody Kimarekani. Feed bloody Americans iced-tea. Fuck lunch.’

His kitchen staff dutifully laughed.  Ignoring the order, they continued setting the long table as Hartley sank into a chair, his mind already distracted by thoughts of his next safari, less than four weeks away.  Amazing how things had transpired. A senior advisor, located in Whitehall – an ex-client – telephoning to ask if he was interested in taking a very important person on a safari well away from any tourist routes. Apparently, this “person”, who was high in the echelons of government, had been advised by his doctor to take time off from Middle East “problems”.

This was exactly the sort of client he wanted to cater for at Zariba Game. ‘I have just the thing,’ he had assured the ex-client, grabbing at the golden opportunity, ‘it’s a secluded paradise dripping with game and not a tourist in sight.’

This special person was clearly very high in the echelons of government for, within a matter of days, three men moulded in the distinctive style of the Secret Service – unassuming dark suits worn with an air of open distrust – had paid him a visit and asked him, politely enough, to give a full account of himself.

They took note of his past clients, distinguished and otherwise; of his involvement in the 1941 campaign to oust Mussolini from Abyssia; and, after a visit to Zariba Game, gave him an interim stamp of approval. Their main concern was that the only accommodation was a white-ant-riddled-hut. Completely unsuitable for this particular client, he was told. He would need to build accommodation to their specifications and have it finished before the intended visit. They would check on progress in six weeks, they informed him, and left.

He had no idea how he was going to achieve the impossible.  His current state of financial affairs precluded him raising money through “normal channels”.  Outside of the banks, he knew of only one person that had the kind of money he was after, a Yemeni living in Zanzibar by the name of Ahmad As-Salih, a most unsavoury character with a reputation to match.  But, as time was of the essence, he saw that he had little choice in the matter and so he had approached As-Salih.

Ahmad As-Salih had asked a great many questions, some of which Hartley was not in a position to answer. However, and in view of the fact that he was requesting the loan of an inordinately large sum of money, he had felt obliged to give the man as much detail as possible and had informed him about the safari but not who the client was, only that he was with the American Government.  In the end As-Salih had been most accommodating.

Hartley’s house in Dar es Salaam would do as collateral, As-Salih informed him. It seemed As-Salih knew the house and was particularly fond of the middle-eastern design.  However, as it would not cover the full amount of the loan he had suggested the balance could perhaps be bartered for by a much-needed favour.

Intrigued, Hartley listened to what the Arab was suggesting.  As-Salih wanted Hartley to take on an assistant at his Lake Manyara camp site. The man in question was an educated Maasai who, having attended university in Edinburgh, spoke perfect English. He would be a great asset As-Salih assured Hartley, going on to explain that he was duty bound to the man’s family to find their son a decent job.

Aware of As-Salih’s reputation, he guessed he was being asked to act as a cover for some dubious activity.  Hartley hesitated.  His livelihood depended on his untarnished reputation. Yet his future for Zariba Game depended on this safari and, besides, hunting game was not the only thing Francis St Claire had taught his grandson. How to achieve one’s dream, by fair means or foul, was very much a part of the old man’s philosophy.

Hartley’s head sank into his hands. Achieving his dream by “fair means or foul” had already cost him dearly and had brought some unsavoury characters into his life. Trevenen, for one, was a loose cog in a well-oiled wheel that could turn out to be his undoing. There was also the little matter of his involvement with Nina.

Hartley’s fist slammed against the wooden table, causing several camp staff to look surreptitiously in his direction. Trevenen would pay dearly for that little indiscretion.  He surely would.

Looking up, Hartley shouted, ‘Fanya Haraka! Hurry up!’ Lunch, he told the staff, should have been on the table fifteen minutes ago.

~~~~~ * ~~~~~

Chapter 4….

~~~~~ * ~~~~~