They had met once before. Klay was investigating elephant poaching in South Africa, and Ras Botha was a necessary stop for any journalist making that trip. Most reported Botha’s name without speaking to him. Botha was not an easy man to track down, and he didn’t talk to the press. Klay got lucky. Botha had been on trial in Pretoria, charged with murdering one of his Russian dancers. Klay attended the trial. On the last day, Botha had testified on his own behalf. The Afrikaner’s defense was simple. “You don’t vermoorden ass like that,” he told the judge. “You fuck it.”

Afterwards, Klay sat in a visitors’ room, looking at the man through scratched Plexiglas. Someone had ripped the phone off the wall on Klay’s side of the window, so they yelled at each other through holes drilled in the Plexiglas.

“I run the ivory trade in Africa,” Botha shouted. He was short and stocky, with a square head, protruding ears, and black crew cut hair. Two prisoners flanked him, a cell phone in each of their hands, all of them Botha’s. The Octopus, they called him.

Klay laughed at the bold confession. Botha saying it matter-of-fact, like he was a businessman.

“You mean the poaching, Botha,” Klay had replied. “You run the poaching in Africa.”

Botha slammed a fist into the Plexiglas. “I’m not a fucking poacher. I’m a hunter. I use the resource. Those elephants are South Africa’s elephants. It’s our decision what to do with them. Not some bleeding-heart Yanks on holiday or some fucking Pommies with an orphanage. Those elephants are property. We own them. And we decide to sell their ivory . . .”

Klay pushed himself up from his airline seat, sending shock waves of pain into his brain. The plane had arrived at its gate. He retrieved his backpack from the overhead bin using his left hand. He looked down to see that his right hand was trembling. He opened and closed it, trying to steady his nerves. Without succeeding, he filed off the plane.

•   •   •

Erin Dougherty was waiting for him as he exited the secure area. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he might have walked past her, but he couldn’t miss Erin’s big mess of curly red hair. She stood on her toes, avoiding his slinged arm, and kissed him in a way that drew attention, including his.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, looking down at her.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, picking up his duffel bag.