The Africans had grown accustomed to their new Asian partners, who were masters of soft power. American and European investment came with a posturing of authority and strings attached, as well as the colonial baggage from centuries of subjugating the “dark continent,” as the pale-faced marauders had derisively called their homeland. Not the Asians though—they came bearing gifts in the form of economic opportunity and bribes, both of which were welcomed by the kleptocratic politicians and warlords throughout sub-Saharan Africa. These Asian cowboy capitalists were here to enrich their new friends—at least, the ones in positions of influence who were willing to sell their homeland to the highest bidder. And as the Africans soon discovered, some of these outsiders were also willing to pay top dollar for very specific wild animal parts.

It was for this last reason that a year ago, a skinny Mozambican in a Vodafone soccer jersey had approached Pham on the street and muttered “rhino horn” under his breath. Pham had never seen rhino horn in person, but rumors of its power had led to its cult status in Vietnam. Pham bought that first ounce on a lark and sent it home in a diplomatic pouch to his friends, who immediately wanted more. And as more horn found its way to house parties in Hanoi, one of Pham’s friends back home was introduced to a buyer from Macau, who was curious how much product these young Vietnamese upstarts could get their hands on.

With demand for his product exploding, Pham wangled an introduction to the regional poaching syndicate leader, Nimpini, who began providing him with horn by the kilo. The horn would then be loaded into the diplomatic pouches bound for the capital of Vietnam. From there, it would hop a boat out of Hai Phong Port and cross the South China Sea to Macau, where the buyer waited with an endless supply of cash and demand for horn.

It had been no small feat growing his business, and the heat it drew to him had necessitated the greasing of numerous palms within the embassy. This, in turn, had squeezed his bottom line and forced him to move more volume to make a profit. The business had burgeoned into a full-time side hustle, and Pham was now neglecting the family construction business he’d been sent here to develop.

It was at this apex of his criminal career that this young player from Hanoi received a text regarding a new harvest of “bamboo”—the code word Pham and Nimpini had established for rhino horn in their communications.

As Pham waited nervously, he spotted a white man built like a mountain gorilla approaching on the sidewalk. The unfamiliar, imposing man yanked open the passenger door and got in. Pham recoiled, startled at the intrusion.

“I have your bamboo,” the man grunted.

Before Cobus turned Nimpini over to the Hawks, the syndicate leader had bargained for his life with everything he could cough up about his buyer in Maputo. Nimpini didn’t know Pham’s name or his day job, only that he was a middleman with bottomless pockets. And Cobus intended to find out who it was that he sat in between. But first he had to persuade Pham to talk.