"Why does he do that?" Claudia asked breathlessly.
"To let the world know who's boss around here."
Then the hyenas came, shrieking and hooting like a pack of ghouls, gibbering with excitement at the smell of the kill. The lion drove them off, rushing heavily in the grass, snarling and roaring, but they came edging back as soon as he returned to feed. They tittered and whooped at him, forming a restless circle around the bait tree.
An hour before dawn, Claudia at last fell into a fitful sleep, hunched down in the chair with her neck twisted at an awkward angle, and she awoke with a start to find it was light enough to make out the links of the chain that held the buffalo carcass.
In the forest close by, a pair of ground horn bills grotesque black birds as big as a wild turkey with the same bald red heads, were booming their dawn chorus in a ritual duet. Beside her, Riccardo was stretching and yawning and Sean stood up, rocking the mac han
"What happened?" Claudia mumbled. "Where's the lion?"
"He took off an hour ago," her father told her. "Long before shooting light."
"Only one way you're going to get this cat, Capo, and that's with a jacklight or a hell of a lot of luck."
"I'm a lucky guy." Riccardo grinned and they heard the distant beat of the Toyota's engine growing louder as Job came in to pick them up.
They stayed in camp all that day, catching up on sleep lost the previous night, but when they went into the hide again that evening to wait for the lion, he had disappeared. He did not come to the bait the following night either, and the safari came on a slow period. Sean and his team worked diligently but fruitlessly to find the lion. There was no report from the scouts Sean had placed to watch the elephant crossings on the Chiwewe River, the northern boundary of Sean's concession. Riccardo Monterro was not interested in hunting lesser plains game such as sable antelope, kudu, or eland. These activities would have filled the days of another safari.
Only the two lionesses and their cubs stayed on the banks of the river-bed, taking up permanent domicile.
"Courtney's five-star hotel," Sean complained. "Gourmet meals delivered daily."
The pride became so accustomed to their visits that the lionesses retreated only a hundred yards or so into the forest with a few perfunctory low-key growls while they watched with interest as a fresh carcass was hauled into the tree. They barely contained their impatience until the Toyota pulled away, and it was still in full view when they came loping back to inspect the latest offering.
However, Frederick the Great did not return. They saw no sign of his huge, distinctive paw marks around the bait or on the dirt tracks Sean patrolled each day, searching the area for forty miles around the camp.
"But why would he just vanish like that?" Riccardo protested.
"Because he's a cat-and who knows how a cat thinks?"
Since that brief but torrid episode in the lion hide, the relationship between Sean and Claudia had altered subtly. Their bickering had become more vindictive and bitter, their overt resentment more intense, and their efforts to discomfort each other more spirited.
When she called him a racist, he only smiled. "In America that word is dreaded as the ultimate insult that can end a man's political career, ruin his business, or ostracize him from society. You are all so terrified of it, and the blacks know it and exploit it to the full.
Even the toughest hard-headed businessman or politician rolls over like a puppy dog and whines if you call him that," Sean told her gleefully. "This isn't America, ducky, and here we aren't terrified of that word. Here racism is the same as tribalism, and we are all blatant tribalists, especially the blacks. If you want to experience true dedicated tribalism and racism, then come and live in one of the newly independent African states. If you call your average black politician a racist, he would take it as a compliment. It would be the same as calling him a patriot."
Her wounded protestations were ample reward for his efforts as he looked for new ways to provoke her.
"Did you know I am a South African?" he asked.
She looked appalled. "I thought you were a Brit." He shook his head and smiled in that infuriating way of his.
"I imagine you support your government's sanctions against my country.
"Of course. Every decent person does."
"Even if it means a million blacks starve as a direct consequence?" He did not wait for her to reply. "What about disinvestment of American business from my country, you are all for that too?"
"I campaigned for it on campus," she told him proudly. "I never missed a rally or a march."
"So your plan is to convert a country by withdrawing all your missionaries and burning down the cathedral. That's brilliant!"
"You're twisting it."
"We should be grateful to you for the success of your efforts.
You forced your own citizens to sell our assets back to us at five cents on the dollar. Overnight you created two hundred multimillionaires in South Africa, and every one of them had a white face.
Congratulations and our sincere thanks, ducky."
But while they argued, they were avidly aware of each other, and the physical contact they had shared lay between them like a poisonous serpent, dangerous but intriguing.