Bear Grylls - Burning Angels

‘We shot hyena,’ Narov cut in, defensively. ‘A pack of them. We did it to safeguard the elephants. They had young ones.’

Konig held up a hand to silence her. ‘I am quite aware that you killed the hyena. And certainly they are a menace. They come here to scavenge juveniles. They cause stampedes, young ones get trampled, and we do not have many of those to spare. The hyena – we ourselves have to cull them, to keep their numbers down.’

‘So your guards heard gunshots?’ Jaeger prompted.

‘They did. They called me in some alarm. They feared poachers had made their way into the cave. Hence I arrived and found… you .’ A pause. ‘A newly-wed couple who scale mountains, penetrate caves and eliminate a pack of spotted hyena. It is most unusual, Mrs Groves, is it not?’

Narov didn’t so much as flinch. ‘Would you abseil into this place without being armed? It would be madness to do so.’

Konig’s face remained expressionless. ‘Possibly so. But still, regrettably, I will have to take your weapons. For two reasons. One, you are trespassing in a closed zone. No one but myself and my guards are permitted to carry arms in here. ’

He eyed Narov and Jaeger. ‘And two, because the man who owns this place has ordered anyone found here to be arrested. I think perhaps this second ruling did not extend to guests of the lodge. But I will reserve judgement, and keep your weapons, at least until I have spoken with the owner.’

Jaeger shrugged. ‘No problem. We’ll have no need of them where we’re going.’

Konig forced a smile. ‘Of course. In Katavi Lodge you will not require any weapons.’

Jaeger glanced after two of Konig’s guards, as they headed off to retrieve the gear that he and Narov had stashed by the lakeside.

‘The pistols are under a small rock, next to our supplies!’ he shouted after them. He turned back to Konig. ‘I guess it doesn’t look too good, carrying weapons into a restricted zone like this?’

‘You are right, Mr Groves,’ Konig replied. ‘It doesn’t look good at all.’

Jaeger went to give Narov a refill, but there was little point, for she’d hardly touched her drink. He was doing so for appearances only.

Narov frowned. ‘Alcohol – I do not like the taste.’

Jaeger sighed. ‘Tonight you’ve got to loosen up a little. You need to look the part.’

He’d chosen a bottle of chilled Saumur – a French dry sparkling wine, and a little less ostentatious an option than champagne. He’d wanted to order something to celebrate their newly-wed status, but something that wouldn’t turn too many heads. He figured the Saumur – with its royal blue label embossed discreetly in white and gold lettering – was about right.

They were thirty-six hours into their stay at the fabulous Katavi Lodge. It consisted of a cluster of whitewashed safari bungalows, each sculpted on the outside with gentle curves designed to soften the hard lines of the walls, and situated within a bowl-like slope in the foothills of the Mbizi mountains. Each came complete with traditional-style high ceilings, fitted with roof fans that kept the rooms relatively cool.

Similar fans turned lazily above tonight’s diners, throwing a light breeze over the setting – the lodge’s Veranda Restaurant. Positioned with great care to overlook a waterhole, it offered a perfect vantage point. And tonight the scene below sure was busy, the noisy snorting of the hippos and the blowing of the elephants punctuating the diners’ conversations.

With every hour they’d spent here, Jaeger and Narov had become ever more aware of the challenges of getting back on to that warplane. At Katavi Lodge, everything was done for you – cooking, washing, cleaning, bed-making, driving – plus there was the daily itinerary of safari tours. The people here sure knew how to run a game reserve, but all that left precious little scope for any freelance activity – like an unsanctioned return to the caves.

At the back of Jaeger’s mind, a dark worry was gnawing away at him: were Ruth and Luke also hidden somewhere beneath that mountain? Were they imprisoned in some lab, like rats awaiting the touch of the ultimate killer virus?

As much as Jaeger knew that he and Narov had to play a convincing act, he was burning with frustration. They needed to get moving; to get results. But Konig was still suspicious of them: they could risk doing nothing to further fuel those suspicions.

He took a sip of the Saumur. It was chilled to perfection in the ice bucket set to one side; he couldn’t deny that it was good.

‘So, you find all this at all weird?’ he asked, lowering his voice to ensure they couldn’t be overheard.

‘Weird like how?’

‘Mr and Mrs Groves? The honeymooners thing?’

Narov glanced at him blankly. ‘Why would I? We are playing a part. How is that weird?’

Either Narov was in denial, or all of this somehow came naturally to her. It was bizarre. Jaeger had spent months trying to fathom out this woman; to get to truly know her. But he didn’t feel a great deal closer to doing so.

With her Falkenhagen bunker makeover – her new raven-headed look – there was something of the Irish Celtic beauty about Narov. In fact it struck Jaeger that there was something reminiscent of his wife, Ruth, in her look.

He found the idea distinctly unsettling.

Why had that come into his head?

It had to be the alcohol.

A voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Mr and Mrs Groves. You are settling in well? You are enjoying the dinner?’

It was Konig. The reserve’s head conservationist did a nightly round of the diners, checking that all was as it should be. He still didn’t sound overly welcoming, but at least he hadn’t had the two of them arrested for their trespassing beneath the mountain.

‘We can’t fault it,’ Jaeger replied. ‘Any of it.’

Konig gestured at the view. ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’

‘It’s to die for.’ Jaeger lifted the bottle of Saumur. ‘Fancy joining us for a celebratory drink?’

‘Thank you, no. A newly-wed couple? You I think have no need of company.’

‘Please, we’d like it,’ said Narov. ‘You must know so much about the reserve. We’re fascinated – bewitched – aren’t we, Spotty?’

She’d addressed that last remark to a cat sprawled beneath her chair. The lodge had several resident moggies. Typically, Narov had adopted the one that was the least attractive; the one that the other diners tended to shoo away from their tables.

‘Spotty’ was a white mongrel with black splodges. She was as thin as a rake, and at some time she’d lost one of her rear legs. Half of Narov’s baked Nile perch – a locally caught fish – had been fed to the cat during the course of the evening, and she’d grown ever more contented.

‘Ah, I see you and Paca have become friends,’ Falk remarked, his tone softening a little.

‘Paca?’ Narov queried.

‘Swahili for “cat”.’ He shrugged. ‘Not very imaginative, but the staff found her in one of the local villages, half dead. She’d been run over by a vehicle. I adopted her, and as no one knew her real name, we took to calling her Paca.’

‘Paca.’ Narov savoured the word for an instant. She held out what remained of her fish. ‘Here, Paca, don’t chew too noisily – some people are still eating.’

The cat reached out a paw, tapped down the chunk of flesh and pounced.

Konig allowed himself a brief smile. ‘You, I think, Mrs Groves, are a hopeless lover of animals?’

‘Animals,’ Narov echoed. ‘So much simpler and more honest than humans. They either want to eat you, they want you to pet them or feed them, or to give them loyalty and love – which they give back to you one hundred times over. And they never decide on a whim to leave you for another.’