We could still get the better of Russell and Richard Sutton Senior.”
“Maybe,” said Eleanor. “Maybe so. But there are a couple of things you may not know, Jack. A Russian Jeep-type vehicle was spotted in Olinkawa the day before yesterday. I suspect there’s been more gun smuggling across the border, and that some of them are destined for the Maasai—”
“But where are they getting the money?” Jack shook his head skeptically.
“That’s the second thing you don’t know,” growled Eleanor gloomily. “That was the main reason Maxwell Sandys was in touch on the radio-telephone. Richard Sutton Senior arrived three days ago, and the day before yesterday he was seen meeting with Russell and Marongo. Something’s going on, Jack, something political, something we don’t have any control over. I’m not at all sure Sutton knows what his money is being used for, but he has more than enough to buy guns.”
• • •
Natalie sat, just inside her tent, and looked out at and listened to the rain. The short rains, as they were called, lasted anywhere from ten minutes to an hour and a half. Nothing at all by Lincolnshire standards. The raindrops flashed and glistened and sparkled in the shine of the hurricane lamp and beat down on the roof of her tent. The smell of the acacia thorns was intensified. She found it all, for some reason, comforting.
She was still not ready to risk a whiskey, but she had lit a cigarette.
How many more nights in the gorge were left to her? If she flew to Nairobi tomorrow, and gave evidence as planned, and if Ndekei were convicted and then hanged, would Marongo really follow through with his threat? If the gorge were destroyed, or occupied, or a change of team were imposed, she—like the others—would become known throughout her chosen profession for this humiliating transformation of fortune, for throwing away the best season’s digging ever.
If she didn’t give evidence, what then? Would she be prosecuted for contempt of court, or wasting police time? Would it make any difference now? Hadn’t things gone too far? Despite the support of some newspapers, would Marongo take any notice? Richard Sutton Senior’s money spoke louder than editorials, especially editorials that didn’t see the light of day. If she could somehow face Marongo and the Maasai with Ndekei’s homosexuality, would that make a difference? Was Ndekei homosexual? If she didn’t give evidence, what would she think of herself a week from now, a month away, in the years ahead? Would Richard Sutton pursue her as he said he would? Either way, her career was almost on the rocks.
And if she was not giving evidence, when was she going to make up her mind? She was no nearer a decision than when she had first wavered all those weeks ago.
It struck her that there were similarities between her own position and Kees van Schelde’s when he had strayed into the bush, exposing himself to risks that might—or might not—kill him. The risks she faced were not mortal but they were not negligible either, not negligible professionally speaking. But, in not taking a firm decision yet, one way or the other, she was letting things ride, letting events carry on around her, in the hope that her problem would be resolved without her actually having to do anything herself.
Was that morally clean?
But the trial was the day after tomorrow. She would have to give evidence then, or the day after at the latest.
Or not.
She was nowhere nearer a decision.
She had come to the end of her cigarette. For once, it hadn’t settled her. She didn’t feel tired, and she was still on edge. Jack wouldn’t come tonight; her body was still not fully recovered. The palms of her hands still tingled.
The rain intensified.
She put out the hurricane lamp, and for a few moments listened to the downpour. She loved the sound of rain.
She shifted in her seat. Her skin still felt as though it was covered in a rash, though all the spots had gone.
Quietly, she undressed and, in total darkness, stepped out of her tent into the weather, completely naked. The warm raindrops pelted her skin, almost taking her breath away. Her mind wasn’t settled and she was still on edge. Water ran down her cheeks, down her chest between her breasts, down her thighs, it dripped off her nose and chin and nipples. Her body was cool and clean, her skin felt free of the rash at last.
And, in the deep blackness, in the