“You’re a pigeon racer now,” he told the young man. He pointed to the pigeon trainer he’d brought. “He’s going to be living with you.” Botha eyed Klay. “You ever raised pigeons? Birds only fly so far at a time and come back, like eight kilometers a week. We didn’t want any mishaps, so we took our time.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “Six months later, the birds were ready. I gave the boy a four-inch section of PVC pipe, sealed on one end, and told him to put a bird in the pipe and take it to work in his lunch pail.

“Pigeon pipe goes through the metal detector, little cloth sack on his foot, diamond or two in the sack, out the little window. Skips the X-ray.” He popped an orange slice into his mouth. “Millions, I made that way.” Botha picked his nose. “They arrested me on sable that time, but you probably read about it. We moved them in bakkies kitted out like farm trucks.” He raised a hand over his head. “Stacked with vegetables up to the sky. Secret compartment inside. Moved them from red zone to green zone. All we had to do. Millions on that one, too.”

“What’s red zone to green zone?” Klay asked.

“Hoof and mouth,” he said. “Sable in the green zone, certified. Worth five or eight times red zone sable. Just had to cross that border. Do you see what I’m saying to you?”

“Borders don’t matter to you.”

“Ach, that’s one way to tell it. Another is, borders are where the money is. You should remember that.”

“Thanks for the lesson. How ’bout if we talk about Kenya.”

“Kenya?”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit, Botha.”

“You don’t have time?” Botha sat back and smiled. “You want, you can borrow some of mine.” He broke off a large section of orange and took his time chewing it.

“I’m talking about your elephant poachers. The two men you murdered.”

“Hey!” Botha called out. Klay heard a magazine crackle. Botha reached into his pocket and slapped a few bills down on the table. “Jacob, my friend, why don’t you go get yourself a Coke?”

Jacob took the money and left.

“So, counselor, you have something you want to say to me?”

Botha wasn’t wearing handcuffs. He was shorter than Klay, compact.

“Tell me about your shooter.”

Botha sat back in his chair and grinned. “I told you before. Elephants are property. What people do with them is their business.”

Klay thought of Bernard. Klay might be built bigger than Botha, but Botha was meaner—he could see that. There was no question, no uncertainty in his dark eyes. Botha was a killer.