Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

My bag is already on the chest at the foot-end of the bed, courtesy of Wataida. I pull on a clean T-shirt and walk back to the main lodge. Next to the building, under an awning, we keep the vehicles. Taking the Jeep, I head in the direction of the fence on the far western side of the property.

It’s summer, and the grass is tall. It’s more difficult to spot the game, but after an hour’s drive, I find the lioness where she’s playing with her cubs under a tree. I park a good distance away and cut the engine. The peace I can never find in the city flows back into my veins as I watch them through my binoculars. I make sure to stay down-wind from the rhinos grazing on the hill, but they know I’m here. Like the lions, they’re used to the noise of the vehicle.

When the sun starts to dip, I make my way back to the eastern side and check on the new solar panels that replaced the diesel generator we had to rely on for power until recently. The panels are on the fenced land next to the tribe’s crops where the maize stands high. A small patch of sorghum shines green in the yellow light of the late afternoon sun.

The kids coming home from playing in the field wave when they see the Jeep. The eldest, Vimbo, comes running.

“Baba,” he says. “How was South Africa?”

I grab the shopping bag with the books from the back and hand it to him. He takes it with a grin, but his smile drops when he peers inside.

“Books?” he says, giving me a look that says, Are you serious?

I smile. “I’m going to test you on each of them.”

He makes a face.

“As your reward, you also get this.” I hand him the bag with the candy and chocolates.

He yanks it from my hand. “Thank you, Baba.”

My, “You’re welcome,” is lost as he runs to share the loot with the circle of kids waiting at the cattle gate.

When I drive past, they’re crouched on the ground, counting out the candy and dividing the spoils equally among the six of them.

Smiling to myself, I drive back to the lodge and park the Jeep before grabbing my toolbox from the storeroom. Tools in hand, I head over to the boma enclosure at the back of the main building to see what the problem is with the generator.

I’ve got all the parts unscrewed and spread out on a canvas when Ruben walks up with a duffle bag. The bag kicks up a cloud of dust when he drops it at his feet.

He glances around and says under his breath, “I’m going to the casino.”

The Livingstone Casino sits on the Zambian side. That’s where we launder most of the money. That’s Ruben’s specialty and why I took him on board. He may not say much—he’s not a big talker—but he’s connected in all the right places. The man has more contacts than a secret agent. God only knows how he makes his connections, because he sure as hell doesn’t do it through networking. At least not by exercising his jaw muscles and using actual words.

“Border?” I ask, removing the last nut and bolt. The malfunction seems to be due to a rusted slip ring that’s not turning.

“The guards on duty are ours.”

As long as we pay a regular kickback, the border patrol and airport staff let us move around freely.

I nod.

He picks up the bag and leaves to deliver the money. I’m not worried about sending him alone. All three of us—Leon, Ruben, and me—work as well independently as together. We know how to take care of ourselves.

I roll the bits and pieces up in the canvas and cover the slip ring with baking soda to deoxidize. After washing up in the guest bathroom, I meet Banga in the office off to the side of the reception hall so he can brief me on the expenses and provisions.

By the time we’re done, the rhythmic echo of drums sounds outside. I walk out onto the deck. The tribe is gathered around a big fire on the lawn in front of the river. Tea candles in brown paper bags light the path, and lanterns hang from the branches of the trees. The men are drumming and the women dancing, their beaded skirts shaking like musical rattles.

A diesel drum cut lengthwise in half and welded onto an A-frame is already filled with glowing hardwood coals. The familiar smell of smoke from Acacia wood rises in the air. Meat will soon sizzle on the fire, and the beer will flow freely tonight. The barbecue is a welcoming tradition. Owning several hideouts in various African countries, I’m away for months at a time, but of all the places where we lie low, this one is my favorite. This is the only place where I feel I can sprout roots.