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

‘Yusuf, I want to thank you. For making time to hear my request, even if you were unable to help,’ Gabriel said in Arabic.

Yusuf bowed slightly.

‘You came on the highest recommendation. I will tell Mr Cho of your trip the next time I see him.’

Gabriel returned the bow, eager to leave and have someone back at The Department check out the pennant. Yusuf escorted him as far as the front door and shook hands once more, releasing Gabriel’s hand after only fifteen seconds.

Gabriel found Jiàntán outside, leaning against the side of the Jeep and smoking. Apparently impervious to the heat, he pushed himself upright, took a final drag on the cigarette then dropped it and ground it out under his toe.

‘You drive for a change,’ Gabriel said in Cantonese.

With Jiàntán behind the wheel, Gabriel scrutinised the image on his phone screen. A white sun. A green hill. Turquoise and orange quadrants. Ideas were shimmering in his mind but refusing to coalesce into something he could get hold of.

He returned to the slogan or motto. Boerevryheid an Regte. He tapped the browser icon, then swore as he realised he had no signal. Then he smiled. He didn’t need it. He was a damn linguist after all. OK, so Boer he knew. The Boer people. Afrikaaners. Regte meant right. Or rights, plural, maybe. Boer rights.

Boer rights. A protest movement of some kind? A pressure group. The Zimbabweans under Mugabe had expropriated white-owned farms and handed them to the president’s cronies. Maybe South Africa’s ANC-led government was trying the same thing. Or planning it.

How about the iconography? A white sun. Well, that wasn’t too hard to decode. Suns set, but they rise, too. And this one was high in the sky and shining down on the land. A white sun might mean white dominance. No, wait. He had it. A green hill lit by a white sun. It was a homeland. A white homeland. No, not a white homeland. A whites-only homeland.

Boerevryheid an Regte was a white separatist movement. And their pennant was hanging in the office of a man running an ivory-carving factory about halfway down the supply chain for poached ivory. Equidistant between the killing grounds of sub-Saharan Africa and eager customers for finished goods in China and the Far East. He realised with a twinge of guilt that Master Zhao had a small sub-collection of yellowed ivory figurines on a shelf in his house on the hill.

The sun – the real sun – was high in the sky. Not white, but blazing yellow, searing the ground and everything foolish enough to slither, crawl, walk or drive across it. He checked his watch. The rose-gold Bremont he’d bought to replace his beloved Breitling told him it was a few minutes before 11.30 a.m.

Back at the airport, after they’d returned the Jeep to the mildly puzzled-looking clerk at the Hertz office, Gabriel turned to Jiàntán.

‘I’m not flying back to Hong Kong. Have a good flight.’

Jiàntán shrugged and grunted. His meaning was clear. Whatever. You’re not my responsibility anymore. The big man turned on his heel and ambled off towards one of the many bars.

Gabriel sighed out a breath. He found a quiet spot and chose a seat facing the runway where he couldn’t be overlooked or overheard. He checked his phone. The signal was strong. The screen lit up with an incoming text. He smiled. It was from Eli.

Contacted by Syrian contract killer. Confessed to the hit on video. Now dead. Also, got lead on poachers. Vientiane. Meet us there ASAP. El x

He took a few moments to digest her six terse sentences. Imagined Eli and Stella taking on and killing a contract killer in some Gaborone backstreet. All roads lead to Laos.

He tapped out a reply.

Good work. You or S hurt? I have lead too. See u in V. G x

Next, he called Don.

‘What’s up, Old Sport?’

‘It’s kind of two steps forward one back, but I have got a potential lead to the poachers.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m in Dubai. I just visited an ivory-carving factory out in the desert. The manager was reluctant to talk about his suppliers, but I think he meets them, at least occasionally,’ Gabriel said, as he watched a Boeing 777 taxiing in front of the expanse of plate glass. ‘He had a pennant in his office. From South Africa. If I send you a picture, can you have someone take a look? I need intel on the source. I think it’s something to do with a Boer separatist movement.’

‘Send it over,’ Don said. ‘And don’t be too hard on yourself, either. This is excellent work. I’ll let Nick Acheson know. He’ll be delighted.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

‘Where are you headed now?’

‘Vientiane. There’s a market there. My guess is some kind of wholesaling operation.’

‘Eli emailed me. That’s where she and Stella are headed.’

‘I know. I just got a text. They found the princess’s killer.’

‘So I gather. I’ve watched his dying declaration. It’s convincing. Our friends in the security services plus the Met are assessing it as we speak. At least Lieberman’s off the hook, poor fellow.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to see much news, boss. What’s happening?’

He heard Don’s breath whistling in and out through his nose.

‘Things could be better. They could be worse, too, of course. Don’t know if you heard, but Tammerlane went to Buckingham Palace for urgent talks about the royal family’s security. The official line is he’s worried for the king’s safety. He’s asked,’ heavy emphasis, ‘him to cancel all public engagements until further notice.’

‘Has he gone along with it?’

‘Apparently. And now Tammerlane’s started summoning the chiefs of staff to Number Ten individually. Seems he has some sort of strategic realignment in mind.’

‘What kind of strategic realignment?’

‘The kind where Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent gets mothballed. The kind where our armed forces are scaled back and refocused on domestic security. The kind,’ Don’s voice sounded heavier somehow, ‘where certain of my former colleagues are meeting in St James’s clubs to discuss their options.’

Even though the