Yet another shipment found its way to an upscale jewelry store in a hotel lobby in the financial district. A well-dressed woman working the store opened the box, revealing an array of beautiful ivory bracelets that had been carved from the nursing mother in Cameroon. These particular bracelets would stay in a safe in the back room until a handful of particularly wealthy and discreet customers the saleswomen had already lined up could come pick them up. Occasionally, a buyer would ask whether the elephants had been harmed, and the chipper saleswoman would assure them that the tusks grew back, which any five-second Internet search would have proved false.

The most valuable shipment, of course, was the rhino horn, which was delivered via motorcycle courier to a bouncer working outside a nightclub. Shortly thereafter, one of the packets would end up in a VIP booth, where a wealthy businessman was flanked by young women who had flocked to him for the free champagne he stocked at his table. The powder was sprinkled first into the man’s scotch, then into the champagne flutes of the eager and titillated young women.

The horn then passed their lips, as did the strychnine that Cobus had added.

CHAPTER 36 THE ELEPHANT KILLERS

CHAPTER 36
THE ELEPHANT KILLERS

Davis fanned away the giant mosquitoes that orbited him as he followed Becker deeper into the forest. The shrubby open canopy of the whitewood trees offered little protection from the punishing equatorial sun, and the dense undergrowth forced them to high-step along a circuitous course. Davis’s slacks and dress shirt were soaked through with sweat and mud from the river crossings, and his face was red from overheating in the heavy, damp air.

Though he was sunburned and exhausted, Davis felt alive. He had something he hadn’t had in years: a mission. It was just like the Jack Ryan novels that had shaped his views of what a career in the agency might look like. And the more pain he endured as he ventured beyond his comfort zone into this malarial frontier, the more real his fantasy became.

The analyst and the hunter emerged from the woods into an overgrown clearing. As they trudged forward through knee-high grass, the droning of insects began to drown out the forest sounds. Ahead, Davis could see dozens of gray mounds dotting the field like boulders. As he advanced, he covered his mouth at the unspeakable tableau stretched out before him. There were at least forty elephant carcasses, looking like giant deflated balloons. The grass and dirt were painted a dark maroon, and large appendages littered the landscape. Upon closer inspection, Davis realized that the abandoned limbs were all severed trunks. He could barely force himself to breathe.

“It’s different here,” Becker said. “In South Africa, they use hit-and-run tactics. Here, they don’t shoot and scoot. They dig in and slaughter every last animal in their area of operations.”