Malcontent/Part 3
Part 3
Jonathan Kamau  |
Alexander Lindh  | |||
The animals on the preserve heard the helicopter before Jonathan did. Two imperial zebras, grazing lazily at a watering hole, had cocked their heads and broke at once, running for the horizon. Jonathan readied his hunting rifle, believing it to be an approaching predator.
When the helicopter touched down and Alexander Lindh stepped out, Jonathan realized he was not wrong.
Lindh was in his fifties now. He had to be, wasn’t he almost a teenager when that awful cartoon had been produced? Age had done nothing to take away his boyish looks, however. Chubby ruddish cheeks, blonde hair tussled from the helicopter ride. Even in his fifties, Lindh seemed less like an adult and more like a boy dressing up as one.
"Jonathan!" he called out.
Jonathan slung his rifle over his shoulder and approached the helicopter.
They shook hands. Lindh’s palm was sweaty. He wiped his brow and guzzled the last of a bottle of water. "I trust you received my call?" he asked.
"This morning."
The call hadn’t been a surprise. Jonathan had been watching the events on the island of Sanhok as they had unfolded. When the feed had cut out, he knew it was bad. Lindh’s presence now confirmed his suspicions: there had been an escape.
Lindh wiped his brow again. It was no use – within seconds the beads of sweat returned.
"Honestly Jonathan, I know you’ll think me a racist for this, but why on Earth would you choose to spend your summers here?"
Jonathan smiled. He knew that Lindh understood. Jonathan felt at peace here. The cities he’d lived in – Nairobi, Berlin, Stockholm, St Petersburg – they were all the same. Stinking pits filled with desperate people trying so hard to wear the masks of the civilized.
It was a mask that Jonathan felt less and less inclined to wear as he grew older
"Do you know why I’m here, old friend?" Lindh said.
Of course he did. This would be the third time Alexander Lindh had asked Jonathan to kill for him.
It was nearly twenty years ago that he had first met Alexander Lindh. The man had come to Kenya to finish his collection. Up to that point, he had put a 7.62mm round through the head of an African lion and used a crossbow to kill a leopard in Kinshasa. On one trip he had killed a Cape buffalo on Tuesday and an African bush elephant only three days later.
The last animal he needed: the rare African black rhinoceros. And it was this animal that proved more difficult than the others. Hunting a black rhino was extremely dangerous and numerous guides had turned him down. Not just because the animal was lethal – Jonathan had seen the beasts uproot trees and overturn vehicles – but because it was a protected species. Over the last few years, Jonathan had seen numerous preservationists and wildlife protectors, many of them armed, emerge to stop poachers and game hunters.
Lindh merely saw this as an obstacle to be overcome. He had a great deal of money set aside for overcoming obstacles.
So, Jonathan had taken Lindh’s money. He arranged the hunt. And three days later, after Lindh had downed the beast, Jonathan handed him an electric chainsaw so he could take the horn as a trophy.
That night they celebrated, drinking their way through pitchers of an overly sweet cocktail called Dawa while Lindh asked him question after question. He was fascinated by Jonathan’s story. What was it like growing up in Kenya? How old was he when he first hunted? When he first killed?
The last question he asked in a whisper.
"Tell me, Jonathan, have you ever desired to hunt something more than a beast?"
Jonathan couldn’t hide his smile. They had little in common; Alexander Lindh, the boy who had a theme park built for him, and Jonathan Kamau, son of a Nairobi bus driver. But he and Lindh did have one thing in common: they were both predators.
"I’m surprised you didn’t call sooner," Jonathan said, pouring Lindh a glass of whiskey. They had retired indoors to a small bar Jonathan used for entertaining guests.
"Yes, well, you know I very much value your skills," Lindh said. "The truth is, Chatmanee runs South east Asia, and she made a strong pitch to handle recovery. She believed her connections would allow her to resolve things more quickly. As time seemed of the essence, it was decided to give her a chance."
"And how is she faring?" Jonathan said.
"Oh it’s quite the cluster. Fourteen dead in Bangkok. Apparently her men shot up a nightclub. Now there’s a formal inquiry. And we’ve not recovered one of the Sanhok four."
Jonathan laughed at that. "Is that what they’re calling them? Sanhok Four? Sounds like they should be wearing capes and fighting crime."
Lindh managed a smile at that. "No one has ever escaped a Battleground before."
That was true. No one had ever even come close. Naturally, there had been some attempts, desperate men and women who had tried to swim for a distant shore. That had been more common in the early days before the chip. Before the Bluezone.
"I trust you were watching?" Lindh asked.
Lindh must have known he had. Jonathan always watched. It was more than a routine for him – it was a ritual. There were many things Jonathan looked forward to: a cold shower after a kill. Good brandy and a spicy curry. Burying his face in a woman.
But there was nothing he relished more than the Battlegrounds.
In the weeks leading up to the games he’d be unable to sleep. Night after night, he’d find himself downstairs in his underwear, poring over combatant dossiers, learning the names and backgrounds, imagining in his head how the game would play out.
Lindh was drawn to the brutality, but for Jonathan, it was all about survival. It was about seeing who amongst the sheep was the real wolf. He liked to imagine that his years as a hunter had given him a sixth sense to sniff out a survivor.
And of the eight Battlegrounds he had been allowed to watch, he had predicted three of the winners. No one else could claim that – not even the man they called The Russian.
This year had been no different. He had studied the files, everything he could get a hold of. At night, he’d dream of being in the tropics. He had only seen a Battleground on Sanhok once before, but it was by far his favorite. Perhaps it was the climate. He found the cold of Vikendi and Erangel to be alienating. And Miramar was so empty and dry.
Sanhok was different. It was sweaty and primordial. And like his home country, alive.
Right away he had a feeling. That tingle in the tips of his fingers. Madison Malholtra. An army brat bounced around the States and Europe. Then, her injury. The setbacks. Her spiral into organized crime. Jonathan knew – this woman was going to survive.
But he never expected it to end the way it did. No one did. With no winner and a cleaner crew descending on Sanhok only to find the entire security team had been killed.
"We’re still determining the specifics of what went wrong," Lindh said. Our friends at Tythonic have, of course, denied any and all responsibility. They claim their technology is without flaw. Human error. Everyone is scrambling to point fingers."
"How did they know where the control room was?" Jonathan asked. The question had been on his mind since the escape.
"We have suspicions. It’s possible they recovered some information from the unmanned trucks. It’s also possible they went into the game knowing more than we had believed."
Lindh paused. There was more sweat on his forehead, but he had apparently given up trying to wipe it clear.
"I don’t think it unreasonable that they had outside help," he said cautiously.
Now this was getting interesting. Jonathan finally understood why Lindh had seemed so nervous when he stepped off the helicopter.
"As I’m sure you are aware, there are those who are not pleased with how he is running things," Lindh said flatly. "We know they made it to Bangkok. The chips were useless in tracking them, but as you can imagine, four blood-soaked foreigners are a striking sight. We followed their trail. That’s where our friend Chat embarrassed herself. They’ve since gone to ground. It’s been two weeks and we’ve not received a sign of them."
"I can’t be the only one you’re talking to then," Jonathan said.
"Of course not. We have eyes all across North India. Malholtra has an expansive network there. We’ve also got some feelers in the Czech Republic, though I don’t believe it’s necessary. If they’re smart – and they are – they’re going to lay low for some time. Let the dust settle before coming up for air. I don’t imagine I need to explain the consequences if even one of them manages to go public."
Jonathan nodded. He understood.
"Then I ask you, old friend, if I may call upon your services again. Neither of us is as young as we once were but I know you’re still quite capable."
"I have a price," Jonathan responded without hesitation.
"Of course you do. No expense will be spared."
"Not money this time."
Lindh’s eyes grew wider. Oh?
"I want to meet him," Jonathan said. "I bring you their heads, I get a sit down with The Russian."
Lindh didn’t respond. For a moment, Jonathan thought he was going to refuse.
Instead, Lindh slowly extended his hand and uttered three words.
"Magna Venari, brother."