Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

a bunch of poachers, however they encountered them.

‘Well?’ Eli said, when she and Stella arrived. ‘What do you think? She looks great, doesn’t she?’

‘You do,’ Gabriel said. He pointed to her left arm. ‘Nice scar. War wound?’

Stella grimaced.

‘You could say that. Mim Robey gave it to me.’

Gabriel peered at the puckered ribbon of skin.

‘Looks like something a golok would do.’

‘A what?’

‘It’s what we called a machete in the SAS.’

Stella nodded.

‘Yes. That.’

They spent a few minutes checking out the knife, machete and bullet wounds on each other’s skin, before Gabriel, laughing, changed the subject.

‘Now that we’ve established we’ve all been in the wars,’ he said, ‘Stella, what did you get from the boffins at the university?’

‘They’ll have a report for me on the soil sample by tomorrow. I’ve couriered a paint sample to Lucian, too. He’s the top forensic scientist at Paddington Green. No idea how long that’ll take, but the lad in the business centre said the courier service to the UK is “One hundred per cent efficient” – his words – so we’ll just have to hope and pray. You?’

‘Eli and I reckon the best next step, for both our investigations, is to hit the bars. Not the swanky tourist ones—’

‘The dives where the pond life hang out,’ Stella finished for him.

‘Sorry,’ Gabriel said. ‘Forgot you’re a cop for a minute.’

‘Must be my cossie,’ Stella said, winking at Eli, who grinned back.

‘Tonight?’

Stella nodded.

‘I was on the phone to my boss earlier. She seems to think she’s paying for me to be out here photographing wildlife. I need to find out what I can and get back to London.’

‘I suspect that where we’re going, you’ll see plenty of wildlife,’ Gabriel said. ‘Scavengers…’

‘Predators,’ Eli added, joining in.

‘And lots of creepy crawlies,’ Stella finished. ‘Eight? Nine?’

‘Nine,’ Gabriel said.

23

At 9.15 p.m., Gabriel parked outside one of the downtown hotels. He retrieved a briefcase from the boot then whistled to a couple of skinny kids in Adidas T-shirts, shiny football shorts and sandals and held out two five-dollar bills.

‘Watch the car for us, boys,’ he said. ‘If it’s unmarked when we get back there’s another five each for you, OK?’

‘OK, Mister,’ the taller of the two said. ‘No problem!’

‘Good. Now, another question. Where do the gangsters hang out in G-City?’

‘Gangsters?’

‘Yeah, you know, the bad guys.’

The shorter of the two boys shrugged.

‘What are you talking about? No gangsters here, man.’

‘Come on,’ Gabriel said with a smile. ‘Don’t tell me a streetwise dude like you doesn’t know where the action is?’

The boy grinned and held out his palm.

‘Questions, free. Answers, five dollar.’

Smiling, Gabriel proffered the extra note.

‘Spill.’

The boy slipped the note into his pocket.

‘Oasis Lounge. Very shiny. On Gandukuni Street.’

Gabriel patted his informant on the shoulder and rejoined Eli and Stella.

‘No need for a bar crawl,’ he said. ‘Our friend back there told me the place we need to hit.’

With the car as secure as they could make it, the trio set off towards Old Naledi, the centre of what the guidebook described as Gaborone’s version of Boston’s Combat Zone.

Gabriel and Eli wore the universal outfit of hired muscle the world over – jeans, boots, black tees and lightweight black jackets. Stella walked between them, head held high, sharply dressed in a dark-grey silk jacket and matching trousers, plus four-inch heels that brought her up to Gabriel’s height. She swung a black briefcase from her right hand.

Stella stumbled on an uneven patch of pavement.

‘These bloody heels!’

‘You’re the big boss,’ Eli said. ‘We can’t have you in combat boots, now can we?’

‘Cheeky mare! Just make sure any trouble gets out of our way fast, cause there’s no way I can fight in these.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You could always take them off and stab the fuckers.’

Gabriel had trodden many such streets in his career, some as a soldier, others as a department agent. Reckoning that two former Special Forces soldiers and a clearly badass Met Police detective would be more than a match for any low-level gangbangers, he walked on, confident they’d find what they were looking for without incident.

The fact that he and Eli were carrying George Taylor’s pistols tucked into their waistbands was also a comfort.

As they walked, the three Brits shared stories, bantered and commented on the sights and sounds of this part of Africa, new to all of them. Insects competed with frogs to make the loudest racket, their overlapping squeaks, buzzes, rasps and chirrups a continuous high-pitched drone.

In Gabriel’s experience, inner-city drinking establishments that didn’t bother with bouncers sent out plenty of other signals to potential troublemakers. He remembered a sawdust-floored Republican bar in the Falls Road in Belfast. Posing as a Russian arms dealer, he’d had to fight to control a fluttering heartbeat as all around him the ‘men of violence’ drank Guinness, ate Tayto-brand crisps and planned attacks on their Protestant neighbours, the British Army or the RUC. McGinty’s front door had been unguarded.

Oasis Lounge fell squarely into the same category as McGinty’s. Outside, young black men leaned against shiny BMWs and Mercedes with oversized chrome wheels and blacked-out windows. The cars’ stereos were turned up loud, pumping the fast, bass-heavy jazz the locals called Afropop into the warm evening air. Girls in vest-tops, micro-miniskirts and heels far higher than Stella’s stood in groups of three or four, laughing and smoking and swigging beer from long-necked bottles.

From inside, yet more music set the air vibrating: harmonising guitars over a lively dance beat and a high-pitched male voice singing in Tsetswana. Above the double doors, neon palm trees flicked from side to side, flanking the name of the bar, which was picked out in orange and lime green. ‘Oasis’ flashed in random patterns designed to give anyone looking for too long a migraine.

‘Confidence,’ Gabriel muttered, just loud enough for Eli and Stella to hear, as they approached the group of men bantering under the sole streetlight.

He noted approvingly the way Stella strode one pace ahead of him and Eli, head held high.

‘This bar’s not for tourists,’ one of the young