I apologized to her for my insensitivity, for my misunderstanding.
“I thought the United States had adopted an ivory ban in 2016,” I said. “I thought our government had shut down the trade in it, and that in order to sell any ivory one had to be able to prove that the object—like a musical instrument—had been made before 1976, or that the antique pieces had been in this country for one hundred years.”
“That’s a start,” Hillary said. “But it’s a bit na?ve to think they’ve shut things down.”
“Didn’t the Chinese announce that they were going to do the same kind of thing? Ban all commerce in ivory, that is,” Mercer said. “By the end of this year, I think.”
“I’m guessing it’s lip service, if it’s even to be believed,” Hillary said. “They’re supposed to shut the trade down in phases, but something like fifty to seventy percent of all smuggled elephant ivory winds up in China—where there are still collectors and scores of master carvers.”
“I guess I’ve had my head in the sand,” I said. “I don’t understand how these treasures—whether elephant tusks or pangolin scales or rhino horns—get from the heart of Africa to America . . . or to China, for that matter. There are oceans between them, and laws now, that make it a pretty dangerous game.”
“It’s not too hard to get,” Hillary said, snapping at me.
“Well, you’ve given us the image of the impoverished Congolese miner who’s trying to keep himself alive in the forest by eating bushmeat, or a poacher from a small village putting poison in a pumpkin. What’s behind this? I think we all get a sense that it’s pretty big, but no idea of how it works.”
“What do you know about human trafficking?” Hillary asked.
“There’s nothing Coop doesn’t know,” Mike said. “That’s her territory.”
“Well, then, it’s just like trafficking in humans,” she said, “or in heroin. It’s organized crime that moves the goods. They get them past government agencies that are weak or corrupt—or both—and they go to sell them in whatever places yield the highest profits.”
“What kind of profit?” Mercer asked.
“A large elephant, with tusks that weigh two hundred fifty pounds each,” Hillary said, driving home her point with a terribly sad image, “figure he’s worth three hundred fifty thousand dollars dead, for the tusks that get to market.”
“That’s a fortune,” Mike said.
“If perspective helps,” she said, “the rangers make about eight dollars a day. They risk their lives for that.”
I was racing away from what my own narrow focus had been—small bundles of rhino horns like Battaglia had intercepted in Operation Crash, which were brought across the border by a loose cohort of amateurs—and thinking instead about the financial opportunities this bloody business offered its takers.
“Humans, heroin, and wildlife,” I said. “Trafficked globally by a large organization.”
“I can see just where you’re going with this, Coop.”
“And I’ll bet that Paul Battaglia got there first.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“The Baboon Café,” Mike said.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“That’s what it’s called, Coop. Let’s sit down, have a coffee, put our next steps together.”
We walked past Tiger Mountain, where the six Siberian cats were taking in the afternoon sun.
Again, no bars. They were enclosed behind a two-inch-thick glass wall, encircling three acres that—according to the signs—was their own personal habitat.
“You’re not wearing Calvin Klein’s perfume, are you?” Mike asked. “Obsession.”
“Strictly Chanel, as you ought to know by now.”
“One of the things I remember from hanging out with these guys when I was in college is that when the keepers wanted to attract them back to the corrals to groom or feed them, they’d douse rags in Obsession.”
“What was it about that particular perfume?”
“The musk in the scent mixed with vanilla and some of the other ingredients.”
“A good reminder to stick to my floral notes,” I said, sitting down at a table, waiting as Mercer went to get three coffees.
Mike turned on his phone and held it to his ear to pick up his messages, listening for three or four minutes before relaying the ones that were meant for me.
“Absence is making their hearts grow fonder,” Mike said.
“Whose?”
“A whole list of people jamming up my phone. You need to call your mother tonight. She won’t be happy until she hears your voice,” he said. “Catherine checked in on behalf of all the girls at the office. Everybody’s coping. The place is wild with rumors about who’ll replace the DA, and half the line assistants are sure it’s going to be you.”
“They’ll be disappointed, won’t they?”
“She didn’t say they want you to be the boss of them, kid. Just that the gov is going to lean on you.”
I put my elbows on the table and rested my face in my hands. “And I’d say that there’s more than a reasonable doubt about that verdict, Mike. Wouldn’t you?”
“Hope springs eternal, Coop. I think the governor is kind of sweet on you.”
“Who else?”
“Laura.”
Laura Wilkie had been my secretary—an executive assistant, really—for a very long time.
“I’ve got to call her. I think she’s the most loyal person on the planet,” I said, lifting my head. “What now?”
“Laura rambled off a list of names of callers. You can play it back yourself to see who you want to talk to,” Mike said. “And she’s messengering up a stack of mail and some packages that have come to the office.”
“Packages? What kind of packages?”
“She didn’t open any. That can be your bedtime project,” he said.
Mercer set the steaming-hot cups down in front of us.
“Who would be sending me things to the office?”
“If you get any pumpkins, Coop, I’d suggest you don’t eat them.”
“My canines aren’t all that valuable.”
“But your brain is,” Mike said. “Traffickers could crush it to bits and feed it to baby girls. Traditional medicine. Make them snarky and acid tongued, fond of ballet, with deep knowledge of Victorian English lit and romantic poetry, a strong sense of justice, refined taste in wine and a particular amber-colored alcohol—”
“Don’t forget the courage,” Mercer said. “Give her cred for that.”
“Snarky brave girls,” Mike said. “I like that. An entire subspecies of Coopsters.”
“I’m craving their company,” I said. “You haven’t mentioned media calls.”
“That’s because Laura’s required to pass them all on to the press office—there are tons of them—and not to tell you who they are.”
“I’m fine with that,” I said. “Let’s think about the late DA and the subject of wildlife trafficking.”
“Ready,” Mercer said.
“Go back to Operation Crash. Battaglia jumped in—for the press attention and acclaim it got him—when James Prescott turned his back on the rhino-horn smuggling. How deep do you think this goes?”