claim, then customs, then past the last of security. Near the exit, he stepped around other travelers —many in clothing suggesting imminent safaris—and began looking for signs of someone or something there to collect him. What will it be? A placard? He saw none. He scanned the concourse, then noticed a slender, graying, somewhat crusty looking African man, a scar on his chin, wearing a camo uniform and brown beret. Jack veered toward him. “Here for an American?”
“Indeed, I am, sir.”
Jack extended a hand. “Jack Chastain, U.S. National Park Service.”
The man shook the hand, uttering something, followed by what might have been, “. . . Senior Warden, Kenya Wildlife Service.”
Accent. Almost British, but . . . “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the name. My ear’s not yet adjusted to . . . .”
“I understand,” the man said, his bearing disciplined, almost military. “My name, Mr. Jack, is Samuel Leboo.”
He let the pronunciations rattle around his brain a moment. “Good to meet you, Samuel. Sorry I took a late flight.”
“There is no problem. Day or night, I work them all.” He glanced at Jack’s bags. “Your luggage? Has it arrived?”
“This is all I have.”
“You travel light.”
“Spur of the moment. I might pick up a few things later, unless you’re taking me to the middle of nowhere. In that case, it’d be good to buy a few clothes.”
“You will not be in the middle of nowhere. You are in the only capital in the world that is also a wildlife reserve. If you need, I can provide clothing items. I can dress you like a ranger.”
“I’m accustomed to that.”
“You’re tall, but not as tall as Maasai. If I can find trousers for them, I can find trousers for you.”
“I’ll try not to need them.”
“Follow me.”
They exited the terminal, into hot night air. Leboo led him past lines of vehicles picking up passengers for various accommodations, some advertising safaris. Crossing the road, a strangely striped vehicle whizzed past, swerving to miss them.
“If I’m killed by a zebra, please let it be a real one,” Jack grumbled.
In the dimly lit parking area, Samuel found his vehicle, a dark Toyota Land Cruiser with agency markings. He opened the left side door and waved Jack over.
Jack came around, and stared inside. No steering wheel. Passenger side. He threw in his duffle and climbed in.
Samuel circled to the driver’s side, climbed in, started the Land Cruiser, and backed out of the parking space. “Mr. Jack,” he said, glancing toward the exit. “How long will you be with us?”
“Two, three weeks. As long as you need me. If we could wrap this up in a couple of days, that’d be okay, too.”
“You did not wish to come to Kenya?”
“Uh, . . .” Jack felt Leboo studying his face. “Always wanted to, but . . . it’s just . . . I have other things that need to be finished.” He turned to the window. “But that’s irrelevant. I’m here. My time is yours.”
“I see.” Samuel gave a slow nod and accelerated onto the road. “How much do you know about Kenya?”
“Not much, really.” He gripped the armrest as Samuel steered onto the left side of the road. “Learned I was coming only yesterday. Or maybe it was today. I’m . . . uh . . . little turned around about what day it is. I did some reading on the flight, but my options for study were limited.”
“Not to worry. I can provide materials.” Eyes on the road, he seemed settled in for the drive. “Kenya Wildlife Service manages national parks and wildlife reserves. People come from around the world to safari in Kenya. This is Africa as the world imagines it to be. Our wildlife are our heritage. To preserve that heritage, our rangers carry AK-47s and AK-103s. Do you know why?”
“Poachers?”
He gave a slow nod, then pulled into traffic, seemingly ignoring the others on the road. “Yes. Do you know what they poach?”
Eyes straight ahead, watching darting cars, Jack said, “Elephant?”
“Yes. Big game animals. Especially elephant and rhinoceros. Do you know why?”
Jack braced himself against the dashboard. “Elephant for ivory, rhino for horns?”
“Correct, and do you know who does the poaching?”
“Not really. Not something I understand very well.”
“Maybe it’s not important that you do. You are a scientist, not someone hired to stop poaching . . . but unfortunately our rangers are. They must carry automatic weapons to do their job. And to survive.”
Cars screamed past, horns blaring.
“Scientist . . . true,” Jack responded. “But we, too, have law enforcement rangers.” He put a hand on the dashboard. “Is traffic always like this?”
“No. During the day it is very busy.” Leboo turned into a roundabout, steering across the lane. Horns blasted behind him. “Do your law enforcement rangers carry AK-47s?” He turned onto another road, this one just as busy.
“Well . . . some train with automatic or semiautomatic weapons—I’m not exactly sure which—but most carry hand guns. Pistols.”
“Here, carrying a pistol would simply make you a target.”
“Is there a reason we’re discussing this? Did you need someone proficient in automatic weapons? If so, they sent the wrong guy. Send me back . . . ask for a different skill set.”
“I do not presume to know what proficiencies you should have as a scientist. I simply want you to understand the risks we face.”
“I’m not sure what difference this makes, but I’m only here because two days ago I was staring down the barrel of an automatic weapon. Several actually. But as you say, I’m a scientist, not someone who carries one. So, why am I here, Samuel?”
Samuel took his eyes off the road. “This incident . . . were you in danger?”
“I suppose. Felt like it. Could’ve been posturing. Not something that happens every day.”
“For our rangers, being ready every day is something to which they’re accustomed. You are here because a week ago, two of our rangers were killed by rhinoceros poachers. One, a biodiversity ranger.”
“A scientist?”
“Yes. An accomplished one. He had recently finished his Ph.D., and returned to Kenya because this is where he wanted to be. He did not want to work at university or in the science office. He wanted to be in the bush.”
