“I have a Gitmo detainee on the record that an Indonesian terror group is trafficking wild tigers from Sumatra to fund attacks.”

For a split second, Davis seemed to have the room’s attention.

Nelson guffawed. “You’re talking about Riduan Dwikarna. The guy’s crazy as a bag of squirrels.”

Davis ignored him, turning his attention to Wilkes so he could jam through his punch line. “This is a direct threat to national security, which is why I propose we create an animal-trafficking section to address this new threat.”

“And I imagine you would nominate yourself to lead this new initiative?” Nelson said, to quiet chuckles from other officers in the room.

Davis nodded, suddenly feeling naked as the room waited for Director Wilkes to decide his fate.

“We’d all love to see the CIA help out on this issue,” Wilkes declared, his voice heavy with compassion. “But we need to make sure every dollar spent here saves lives. Unless you can prove a direct link to terrorism, we simply can’t justify the resources.”

Davis swallowed, his throat completely dry. “Sir, we all know that threats proliferate and change. This is real.”

Wilkes studied Davis for what felt like an eternity, then exhaled deeply. “The Sumatra connection is interesting. I’m willing to fund a small expedition to see if there’s a durable intelligence interest.”

Davis breathed a brief sigh of relief as Wilkes adjourned the meeting.

“We’ll reconvene in a month and see if this thing has wheels.”

CHAPTER 9
THE ELDERS

massingir, mozambique

The village elders—the induna, as they were called—had plenty of reason to be upset. The mlungas had come and set up canned hunting concessions all along Mozambique’s border with South Africa. In exchange for leasing the land to the white foreigners, the locals were promised schools and medical clinics. The schools and clinics turned out to be cinder-block sheds that were abandoned immediately after their construction. Now the locals found themselves in a situation where the white men could make hundreds of thousands of dollars hunting the people’s birthright for trophies, whereas, if the indigenous people hunted the same animals they had hunted for millennia, they would end up in prison—assuming they weren’t shot on sight, as was the policy throughout the region.

Cobus and Lawrence stood before the induna, who were seated at a picnic table in a clearing, under a gangly guarri tree. Though these men were from the lower mud-hut class, they dressed in slacks and shirts as if they were headed to church. One of the induna hung his head in his hands, unable to speak through his grief.

“His son was only there to carry water!” a man shouted at Cobus. “Why did you shoot him?”

Cobus let their grief and anger wash over him. He couldn’t blame the men for their pain. In fact, he shared it.

Another elder protested the legality of the kill. “If you don’t have a rifle, you don’t get shot! That is the law! The boy never touched a gun—they should send you to jail!”