Ivory Nation by Andy Maslen (free children's ebooks online txt) 📕

‘That was worse than the first shot!’ Eli said. ‘I think George is right. You need to get in some serious practice.’

Gabriel turned to them, handing her the AK. He smiled.

‘Not at all. I hit the target dead-centre. Come and see.’

They followed him down the improvised range until they reached the tree. Up close, Gabriel could see it was obviously a favourite for marksmanship practice. Its trunk and branches were scarred with hundreds of pockmarks.

The spinning metal targets were equally well used. Their rotating plates were dented and scored with silver lines.

‘So? Where’d your shot go?’ Eli demanded.

Gabriel wasn’t looking at the branch. He was scouring the ground around the tree. Finally he saw what he was looking for and toed it into plain view from its resting place in the dust.

‘There!’ he said triumphantly.

Four legs lay in the dirt, attached to a fragment of hairy exoskeleton. Some way away he saw two more legs, separated this time from the spider’s body.

Taylor bent and picked up one of the three-inch-long legs. He waggled it at Eli.

‘Huntsman,’ he said. ‘One of the little buggers bit my chef only last month. Poor bloke was in the sick bay for the rest of the day. Thought he was having a heart attack.’

Eli nodded, pursing her lips.

‘Not bad shooting. Shame you had to kill a poor little spider just to show off, though.’

‘Poor—?’ Gabriel repeated. ‘It was about to attack a defenceless little bird. Anyway, you heard what George said. They’re monsters.’

‘Speaking of monsters,’ Taylor said, ‘what do you think about the new prime minister back home?’

‘I don’t know how he pulled it off. First winning the election and then this amazing stroke of luck that he just happened to be running down the street at the exact moment the shooter took out the princess. The more I think about it, the more fishy it gets.’

Taylor laughed humourlessly.

‘Like a bucket of herrings left in the sun for a week. You buy the Israeli angle?’

‘On the face of it, you have to. I mean, he was up there. His prints were all over the rifle.’

Gabriel hesitated.

‘But?’ Taylor prompted.

‘But, why? That’s what Eli and I can’t see.’

‘Exactly,’ Eli said. ‘There’s no earthly reason why Israel would want to assassinate a princess. That “pro-Palestinian” bullshit is just the media cooking up conspiracy theories. Oh, and by the way?’ she said, spreading her hands wide. ‘If they did, do you really think they’d do it that way? I mean, come on! This is the Mossad we’re talking about. They’d do it so it looked like a heart attack, or an accident. They wouldn’t send a sniper.’

‘I agree,’ Taylor said, simply. ‘I think Tammerlane’s a very dangerous man. Mark my words, his next move will be to sideline the monarchy and call a referendum on going for a republic. At best,’ he added, frowning. ‘It’s one of the reasons I’m planning to relocate the business out of the UK.’

Still discussing UK politics, Taylor led them away from the shooting range to a hangar-like building.

‘Motor pool,’ he said, sliding a full-height wooden door to one side on greased rollers.

Gabriel nodded his appreciation. Beside him, Eli whistled. Inside the dimly lit space they could see twenty or so military spec vehicles from Jeeps and Land Rovers to armoured Bradley Fighting Vehicles.

‘You’re journalists, right?’ Taylor asked.

‘That’s the legend,’ Gabriel answered.

‘In that case, I think these babies might be a little too, what shall we say, OTT? You could just about explain the weapons away, but not one of these. Come with me.’

He strode between a couple of Land Rovers wearing green-and-brown camouflage.

The trio emerged in front of a handful of white-painted Toyotas. A couple of Hilux pickups on extra-large tyres and jacked-up suspension, and three Land Cruisers, the pickups’ bigger, bolder SUV cousins.

‘The poachers mostly use these, plus just about every militia and terrorist group from Boko Haram to the Lord’s Resistance Army,’ Taylor said. ‘Toyotas are the Kalashnikovs of the automotive world. Bullet-proof engines, pretty much literally. Fixable with whatever you’ve got to hand. Take one of the Hiluxes. I’ll have one of my boys load it up with spare gas, water, the usual.’

Two hours later, Gabriel was piloting the pickup through the Gaborone traffic, thankful for the visibility from the high-up driving position. He turned to Eli.

‘Now all we need is a guide to the kill site.’

‘We should head over to the Anti-Poaching Unit.’

‘Now?’

‘Why not?’

‘You think the kit’s safe in the back?’

Eli pursed her lips.

‘Hotel first, then we’ll call them and make an appointment.’

Gabriel nodded.

‘Better.’

Taylor had packed their materiel in nondescript black nylon holdalls. They hefted the heavy bags onto their shoulders and entered the blessedly cool reception area, making their way to the stairs without attracting so much as a glance from the other guests thronging the marble-floored space.

Sitting in an armchair in their room, Gabriel launched a browser on his laptop and Googled ‘Botswana Defence Force’. He called the main switchboard number.

‘BDF. How may I direct your call today?’

‘Hi. Can you put me through to the Anti-Poaching Unit, please.’

‘Hold the line, please.’

Gabriel smiled at Eli, who was field-stripping her AK-47. The phone clicked.

‘This is Major Edward Modimo. To whom am I speaking?’

Gabriel gave his prepared lines.

‘Major Modimo, my name is Alec Jensen. I’m a freelance journalist. I’m travelling with a colleague in Botswana. We’re researching a piece on the illicit ivory trade. We’d like to interview you about the BDF’s anti-poaching efforts.’

Gabriel heard the major sigh. He held his own breath.

‘A journalist? For which media outlet? The Times of London? The BBC? Buzzfeed?’ he added, with barely concealed contempt.

‘As I said, I’m freelance, but yes, the piece is for the Times. An in-depth report.’

‘Your colleague. He is a photographer?’

Sensing a way in, Gabriel improvised.

‘Yes, absolutely. Although he is actually a she. We’d obviously want some good photos of you and your men.’

‘Do I need to visit my barber?’

Gabriel hesitated.

‘I’m sure, Major, your appearance will be—’

The major laughed.

‘I am joking, Mr Jensen. Yes, come and see me.