“He’s Samburu,” Bernard said.

The politician sipped a bottle of beer.

“Deep down,” Bernard added.

Bernard whistled, and his rangers swung themselves into the open Land Rover. The Perseus Group engineer did not move.

“Let’s go,” Klay yelled to him.

The engineer glanced momentarily in Klay’s direction, then returned to his phone. He spent a few more moments typing before finally crossing the clearing to join them.

“I sent my report to Tysons Corner,” he said to Bernard.

“That’s your prerogative, Greg,” Bernard replied.

“Our contract is very clear with respect to all anti-poaching operations.”

“So you said. We’ll be leaving in a moment. You’ll have the second row to yourself.”

The engineer climbed into the truck.

“Welcome to Kenya, Mr. Sovereign,” Simon Lekorere boomed, extending his hand. The politician’s hand was small in Klay’s, but surprisingly calloused. The portly man laughed, as if he knew what Klay was thinking.

“Come,” he said, climbing into the Rover’s passenger seat. “Let us see if we can save some of our elephants today.”

A bodyguard placed a small cooler between Lekorere’s feet. Bernard walked Klay to the back of the vehicle.

“What’s your play to hold him?” Klay asked quietly.

“Pride,” Bernard said.

“Pride?”

“Samburu understand the importance of land. We have to remind him that he is Samburu first and a greedy politician second. He’s wily. He’s been playing the Chinese for us, getting us a new school and a clinic.” Bernard reached into the back of the vehicle and withdrew a rifle. “Take this.”

“No, thanks,” Klay said.

“You said it yourself,” Bernard said. “If this is a Botha operation, we should be ready.” He nodded toward the politician. “Let’s give him the idea we’ve got something worth protecting, shall we?”

Klay accepted the rifle, a battle-scarred, bolt-action Mauser, no doubt confiscated from a poacher. He shouldered it. Checked the action. “Make a better club,” he said, working the ragged bolt.

“Good.” Bernard smiled. “We are out of those.” He handed Klay a five-round stripper clip. Klay pressed the cartridges into the magazine, pushed the bolt forward, and let the clip fall to the ground.

Bernard bent down and picked it up. “We recycle these.”

“Sorry,” Klay said.

Bernard tapped him on the shoulder with the piece of metal and nodded toward the politician. “We need him. So try not to shoot him.”

“That only happened once,” Klay said. “And it was an accident.”

Bernard was still chuckling as he started the vehicle.

•   •   •