CHAPTER 8
Monday 23rd June, 2014
Otjindawa Nature Reserve, Namibia
Annie deserts him after lunch.
She's told him all about her frustrating morning trying to have a look at Jaco Bouwer's laptop. She'd gone into photographer mode – Laura Pritchard in her element – taking photos of everything – cheetahs, volunteers, interior and exterior of the clinic. (And no, he had not failed to notice how many photographs she'd taken of Owen Garrett. That had been encouraging).
Though the photography had necessitated frequent trips into the storeroom to fetch alternative lenses, her flash, another memory card, she'd been unable to capitalize on any of those visits. Apparently, the clinic refrigerator is also in the back room and the vets were constantly walking in and out to put samples into it and take vaccines out.
The risk of being caught had just been too great.
Jaco Bouwer hasn't been at lunch. Michael, coming over to join them towards the end of lunch, tells them the vet was still up at the office doing admin work.
Annie asks Michael if there would be a problem if she were to walk up to the clinic. "To reorganize my camera gear. I left it in such a mess." She's apparently spotted another potential opportunity. The Laura Pritchard charm is out in force again.
"Oh, no need to walk! I can give you a lift up on the quad bike." Michael sounds even more enthusiastic than usual.
"Really. It's no problem." Annie obviously hasn't missed the slight quirk of Auggie's eyebrows. She sounds like she's suppressing a giggle. "I'd prefer to walk, actually. It's such a gorgeous day." Poor Michael. "Will I be able to get into the back room when I get there?"
"Yes." Is Michael sounding a little forlorn? "If it's not open, Jaco has the keys with him."
"Awesome! Thanks."
"While I'm here, Owen," Michael is recovering nicely, "you remember you wanted to talk to Jennifer to get background information for your article?"
Auggie nods. "Yeah?"
"She wanted to know if you could perhaps meet with her straight after lunch."
"Shouldn't be a problem. Where does she want to meet?"
"Here, if that suits you. She said she'd come down and find you. I'll just give her a ring quickly and let her know."
His footsteps disappear in the direction of the reception desk and presumably the phone.
Annie leans over to him and whispers: "Who's Jennifer?"
"No idea." says Auggie. He grins, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head. "This could be interesting."
"It could," she muses. "I'm kinda sorry I'm not going to be here to watch."
"You abandoning me in my time of need, Walker?"
"Yep," she says cheerfully. Mercilessly. "I have other plans."
"Oh, you do, do you?" There is a flirtatious undercurrent in the air. It's tantalizing.
He wants to capitalize on it, to search for her hand, but the unmistakable sound of approaching footfalls interrupts them. Damn.
"She's on her way down," announces Michael. "Won't be too long."
"That's my cue, then," says Annie. "I'll head off." Standing up, she places a hand on Auggie's shoulder and bends to down to whisper in his ear. "Be nice to the boy." His frustration at the interruption must have shown on his face.
Then she kisses him on the cheek. "Bye," she says out loud. "See you a bit later?"
"Yep." He catches her hand. Gives it a little squeeze. Lets her go.
"Bye, Michael," calls Annie, breezily.
Auggie uses the brief time he has before his meeting with the mysterious Jennifer to compose several (he hopes) journalistic-sounding questions about the set-up at Otjindawa. He has assumed, from Michael's initial message, that this is what the meeting will be about.
He doesn't have long to wait.
Determined footsteps (two sets?) coming towards him are followed by a confident "Owen Garrett? I'm Jenny Brandreth."
Auggie begins to rise, but is told "Please, don't stand. We'll join you here, if you don't mind."
We? Auggie is just about to ask when Michael announces himself. "Hi Owen. Sorry, you can't get rid of me today. Jennifer thought it would be good if I sit in on this too."
"Two for the price of one? Even better." Auggie smiles at him. He means it.
He has finally figured out who Jennifer is. Previously known only to them as J. M. Brandreth, she is the eldest of the trio of siblings who own and manage Otjindawa – the others being Holly, the youngest, and a brother in the middle. As such she's the big, big boss. He's sure he should be feeling flattered she's introduced herself as 'Jenny'.
Jennifer gets straight to the point. The meeting, it seems, is going to be all about the article. "We want to answer your questions as fully as we can." The subtext is: 'We want to make sure you write a glowing article on your experiences at our establishment. And get everything right.'
You really don't need to worry, you know.
He almost feels guilty stringing them along. He poses his few questions, recording their answers.
Jennifer know how to sell what they do, and sell it well. He's delighted. As part of their deal he's going to have to actually write this article for Owen Garrett (an idea he's not relishing). If this woman is going to feed him great lines - and she's a consummate sound bite pro - he's absolutely going to take them. He's already mentally lifting large chunks of what they've told him straight out of his voice memos and into that article. Win.
Jennifer changes tack. "If we've answered everything you wanted to know, maybe you wouldn't mind us turning the tables on you for a bit?"
"Sure. What do you wanna know?"
"Good. Let's start with this. How are we doing?"
He's confused. "What d'you mean?"
"I mean…" A pause as if she's gathering her thoughts. "…we built our accommodation with wheelchair access in mind and we've had several guests here with…mobility impairments but, until you approached us, we hadn't really thought about how what we do here might be particularly...accessible…for someone who is...visually disabled..."
You can say 'blind,' he thinks. I won't make you wash your mouth out with soap.
He can't decide if he finds her careful 'political correctness' irritating or amusing. He's a 'call a spade a spade' kind of guy and, though he respects other people's views on the subject, he generally finds tiptoeing around terminology exhausting.
"Um…" he says.
"What we're asking, really," she says, "is, is there more we can do? To make the experience better."
"For a blind guy?"
"Any blind guest."
Ha! Made you say it.
"Braille the mini bar price-lists?" suggests Auggie. "Nice to know how much money you're drinking away in your room at night."
Michael snorts. There's a (disapproving) silence from Jennifer. Oops. Not being serious enough here. There's apparently more than just the one third grade teacher in the family.
"Sorry," he says. "Kidding." He offers an apologetic smile - genuinely considering their question now. "Actually, a braille copy of yourinformation folder is something you could look into." He pauses. "Y'know, in all seriousness, you have two great assets here, and as long as you hang on to them, far as I'm concerned anyway, you're ninety-five percent of the way there."
"And those are?"
"Those are Michael and Jaco."
But next year you may only have Michael, he realizes soberly.
Their meeting done, Auggie stands, and begins folding open his cane.
"Can I give you a lift home on the quad bike?" Michael asks.
Home.
He shakes his head. Gives the guy a smile. "Hate to be the second one to turn you down today," he responds, "but I'd also really like to walk." And then he remembers. "Could do with a guide to the start of the footpath, though. You mind?"
"Not at all." Michael's right there with a fuss-free elbow for him.
The walk does him good. He needs the headspace just to get perspective again. He feels as though he's been pulled under some kind of a spell and he has to try and distance himself – from this place, from its people (especially Jaco Bouwer) and from her.
Because he has a job to do.
Annie, in all likelihood, is back at the suite with the info he's asked for.
And he has a Trojan Horse to build.
Auggie doesn't seem particularly perturbed that Annie hadn't gotten past the Windows 7 login screen on Jaco's machine. "Julie was working in the lab next door," she tells him. "I had to go quick - was worried she'd catch me red-handed."
"No biggie," he says. "We'll just have to work in real-time for a while instead of letting the trojan do all the work. I can work around the login, and then once we've got admin privileges we circumvent any firewalls we find. And then we're in. As soon as he links up with the Lodge's Wi-Fi he's fair game."
He's in his element, now. If she didn't know him as she does she'd wonder about the contradiction – the genuine warmth of the relationship he's beginning to build with Jaco and the cool, calculated relish with which he is planning the access, analysis and probably exploitation of the man's most private information. Sometimes it's easy to forget that under Auggie's good-natured, laid-back exterior lies a gifted, seasoned and ambitious spy.
It's the paradox that haunts both their lives.
When she first was sworn in at the CIA they'd asked if she would be able to keep her professional and private lives separate. She'd been naïve enough to say yes. And mean it.
She knows better now.
For people like her and Auggie – people who are passionate, who feel things – there are no separate lives. There is no compartmentalization; there are no clear lines. There's a foggy mixture of instinct and intelligence, gut feel and hard data, feeling and fact. And always, always there are choices that have to be made within that quagmire of uncertainty.
And because of the nature of the job they do – the work they both live for - the repercussions of those choices can be devastating.
She watches him from her vantage point on the deck – his fingers are tapping rhythmically over the keyboard, headphones are on. He's completely absorbed. She'd tried listening once to the feedback through his phones but it had been utter gibberish to her. He'd laughed at her and then turned the speed way, way down until she was able to make out something. "You learn to 'speed listen' over time," he'd told her in his matter-of-fact way, "just like you learn to skim read. If you have to."
He mesmerizes her.
She'd told him that once, a long time ago. He'd taken it in jest – thrown back some witty remark - but she hadn't meant it that way.
She remembers watching him like this in a safe house in Barcelona – him waxing lyrical about another hacker's code - her laughing at him. There had been pain that day, too. But such simple pain in retrospect. Unrequited love is so quiet in contrast to the tumult that is devastated love.
She forces herself to look away – to drink in the stark beauty of the space surrounding her; to allow it to scrub out her soul again; the way she's finding it can.
"Walker." He breaks into her reverie. She turns around. He is leaning back in his chair, stretching out his back, headphones around his neck - holding out a flash drive in her direction. His characteristic, satisfied, 'I'm so clever' grin of accomplishment draws a responding grin from her.
He is so clever.
She stands up and goes over to him. Takes the drive from his hand.
"Miles Davis?"
He laughs. "Maybe not quite that sophisticated," he replies, "but it'll do the trick."
