Red Earth

by Tony Park

  ‘I’ve got a gun.’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t carry a weapon?’

  ‘I don’t, usually. It’s my ex-boyfriend’s. I threw his uniform off the balcony of my apartment and I didn’t want some tourist below getting brained by his pistol.’

  Mike smiled, then returned his concentration to the road. ‘I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side.’

  ‘Then don’t tell me what to do. You owe me, going to fetch your vehicle then coming all the way back up here. I’m as involved in getting these kids back as you are.’

  Nia took Banger’s pistol out of the pocket of her flight suit. She knew enough about firearms to be able to remove the magazine, clear the breach and then reload it. The action was smooth. Banger was a gun nut and cleaned his weapon every day. She felt a twinge of sadness, followed by anger.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Mike said.

  She cradled the pistol in her lap and felt a chilly shot of fear mix with the adrenaline.

  Mike took the turnoff to the kuMasinga hide car park. He drove to the end of the access road, switched off the engine and they both got out. Mike stood there, his rifle in his hands, cocked his head and listened. A hyena gave its eerie whooping call somewhere in the dark.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ he said quietly. ‘Kids with AKs aside, there could be leopard drinking at the waterhole at this time of night.’

  ‘Don’t run, right?’

  Mike nodded. They set off, Nia following close behind him. She cocked the pistol and was careful to keep it pointed down. She had walked in the bush before, but never at night. No one in their right mind did this. She felt the downy hair on her arms stand on end.

  The moon was full and bright, a poacher’s moon, people called it. Mike moved off the track that led through the bush to the hide, stopped and studied the ground in front of him.

  ‘Someone crossed the track here,’ he said quietly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘People don’t walk through the bush here, they stick to the pathway. This person’s come from the left, through the trees and crossed over. Looks like a woman or a girl’s shoe.’

  Nia gripped the pistol tighter in her hand and Mike moved slowly through the bush. ‘Can you see any more tracks?’

  ‘He was careful. He would have jumped across the track, but she left half a footprint. They’re here.’

  Mike retraced his steps to the pathway and, rifle raised and at the ready, moved forward again. ‘Themba! It’s Mike, Mike Dunn. Come out. You’re not in trouble.’

  Past Mike’s broad shoulders Nia could see the wooden structure of the hide. Beyond and on either side of it moonlight glittered on the still, steely-coloured water. A baboon barked a warning call somewhere.

  Mike stopped abruptly and Nia started as a bark echoed out and a form flashed across the pathway. Nia’s heart pounded as she watched the little brown bushbuck hop away. Mike resumed walking. ‘Themba?’

  They approached the entry to the structure. Nia checked her pistol.

  Mike’s boots clacked as he stepped onto the timber walkway. He lowered his rifle and she could see that the hide was empty. Mike’s shoes now clanged on a steel grid that formed part of the floor.

  ‘Themba,’ he called again, louder this time, ‘it’s Mike Dunn. If you’re around here, please let me know. I’ve come to get you out of this.’

  ‘Mr Mike?’

  Nia looked around. She didn’t know where the voice had come from, but Mike looked down, between his feet. Nia went to him and also stared down.

  There, ankle-deep in mud and staring up at them through the steel grid, were the faces of the three missing children.

  *

  Egil Paulsen studied the map of Mkhuze Game Reserve by the dim interior light in the cab of the warden’s bakkie.

  Dlamini’s BMW was getting low on fuel, so he had left it at the camping ground and elected to ride with Jonas, the park warden.

  The warden was driving, having received a call from Mike Dunn that they had found the three missing children, and that Dunn had taken them peacefully into custody. Dunn had confiscated an AK-47 and a bag of rhino horn. The warden was on his way with Egil, who was still masquerading as Detective Swanepoel, and four armed rangers in the back of the truck.

  Egil had made conversation with the warden, trying to learn more about this man, Dunn. To his surprise, Egil learned that Dunn was a vulture researcher who fancied himself something of a wildlife cop. The warden’s brother-in-law, a retired ranger named Solly, had told him on the phone that day how Mike and he had been involved in a shootout at the Mona market. Egil had nodded, agreeing that it had indeed been a crazy couple of days in KwaZulu-Natal, while inside he had felt a surge of excitement that he would again come face to face with the man who had set up an ambush for him at the site of the helicopter crash.

  Egil had tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade the warden that he didn’t need so many armed men, and that perhaps they should be allowed to return to their quarters for the night since Mike Dunn had found the children. Unfortunately the warden had insisted on bringing along his posse of rangers.

  From a pocket of his jacket Egil took out a silencer. When they turned off onto the access road to the kuMasinga hide, Egil judged that the time was right. He took his Glock from his holster and cocked it.

  The warden showed no concern until he pulled up at the hide’s car park, near a white Defender emblazoned with vulture research signs, and saw that Egil was screwing the silencer onto the barrel of the pistol. ‘What do you need that for?’

  Egil raised the pistol and pointed it between the warden’s eyes. ‘Sadly, this.’

  The slam of the slide and the muffled but still audible report of the shot was lost in the noise of the bakkie’s springs creaking as the armed rangers climbed out of the back of the Toyota.

  Egil got out of the passenger’s side. ‘The warden’s making a call. Get yourselves ready. I need a quick piss.’

  Two of the men laughed, but all four turned their backs to him as they checked their weapons. Egil used their respect for his privacy to put the first two men down quickly, a close-range shot in the back of each of their skulls. The third turned and Egil shot him between the eyes.

  The fourth was quicker, smarter than his colleagues and, perhaps falling back on something he’d been taught in training, he dropped to his knee to make himself a smaller target. He was barely five metres from Egil, but the sudden move was enough to add a split second to Egil’s aim.

  As Egil pulled the trigger the field ranger’s rifle was coming up, the barrel pointing his way. Egil fired twice, a double tap. The first round caught the ranger in the chest, but before the second went into his open mouth the man was able to pull his trigger and an unsilenced shot shattered the calm.

  Egil was also already moving to the right so the bullet missed him, but it would have alerted Dunn and the children. Egil stepped over the dead man.

  He cursed. He had lost the element of surprise. He reached into the warden’s bakkie, took the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. The only other vehicle in the car park was the white Land Rover Defender he’d seen when they’d driven in, the stretched version with the double cab. He went to it and saw that it was locked, no keys. He fired a shot through the driver’s door window, then used a stout stick to smash out the shattered glass. He reached inside, popped the bonnet, then opened up the engine bay and put a bullet into the injector fuel pump.

  With the Land Rover disabled he jogged down the pathway to the hide. ‘Mr Dunn? Mike Dunn? This is the South African police,’ Egil said, disguising his voice with a heavy Afrikaans accent. ‘There’s nothing to be alarmed about, one of the rangers just had an accidental discharge with his rifle. We’re coming to rescue the missing children.’

  There was no answer. Egil unscrewed the warm silencer from his pistol and pocketed it – the
suppression device would look suspicious to a man who knew firearms.

  He was so close to getting the child back. He wondered where Suzanne and the others were, and hoped the Americans or the real South African police had not captured them. For all their talk of disavowing torture he knew the CIA would be able to break one of the group. He had to get the baby and get out of the country. It would not be easy, but nothing about this mission was ever going to be that. The Americans had been bloodied and they would be angry.

  ‘Mike Dunn, I’m coming to you and I’m armed.’

  There was no reply.

  Egil slowed as he saw the outline of the wooden game-viewing hide. He raised his pistol and its barrel followed the sweep of his eyes as he checked the bush on either side of him. He wished he had taken a green bush hat from one of the field rangers he had killed to cover his white hair. It was a mistake, but he could not go back now. Time was crucial.

  Looking down he saw fresh tracks, two sets, one big, the other smaller. Dunn was not alone, and it looked like he had a woman with him.

  Egil stepped softly onto the wooden walkway, but nonetheless his footsteps echoed. He walked into the hide and heard the note of his footfall change from rubber on wood to the soft clang of metal. There was no one in the hide. He looked down through the metal grating, which had been placed to allow visitors to view hippos, crocodiles and other creatures below.

  There was nothing.

  Chapter 22

  Jed Banks and Franklin Washington stayed behind in the officers’ mess of the Natal Mounted Rifles, in Durban, after the meeting of a rapidly growing team of South African and American law enforcement, government and military officials broke up.

  With them, not long off a chartered jet flight from Nairobi, Kenya, was the head of the CIA’s Africa station, Jed’s boss, Chris Mitchell.

  Jed was smarting from being pulled back from the search, but the South Africans were getting their collective act together to keep a tighter rein on the Americans in their country. Also, Chris wanted to talk through strategy with him, and Franklin had needed to be bandaged up. He had cracked some ribs and suffered a couple of lacerations, but he was still in the game.

  The briefing had heard that a blue Volkswagen Polo stolen by the fugitive Suzanne Fessey and two accomplices had been recovered near Hilltop Camp in Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park, but Fessey and her men were still in the wind.

  ‘What’s your take, Jed?’ Chris asked now.

  ‘Suzanne Fessey is a mom,’ Jed said, stating what many in the room had probably been thinking, ‘but she’s also a hardened terrorist and a committed jihadi. I can understand a woman going to the ends of the earth to get her child back, but not the rest of her cell.’

  ‘I would have expected them to cut and run at the first sight of us,’ Franklin weighed in. ‘I mean, it’s all very well for her people to help the woman try and get her kid, but is it worth them taking on a Sea Hawk helicopter in broad daylight? And what do a bunch of jihadis care about a half-white kid in any case?’ he added.

  ‘Those kids have got something else the terrorists want,’ Jed said.

  He looked at Chris. With his wavy grey hair, round spectacles and softly spoken manner he looked more like a kindly old grandfather than America’s top spy in Africa. Chris was a Cold War warrior who’d stayed on to fight America’s new enemies. Africa had started as a backwater in the war on terror, but now home-grown terrorist groups such as Boko Haram and Al-Shabaab were almost as much a household name as al-Qaeda and ISIS. They were all now very much on the front line.

  Chris nodded. ‘We’re now certain Suzanne Fessey was the so-called White Witch.’

  Jed and Franklin had been discussing Fessey’s possible role in global terrorism since they had been partnered, at Chris’s orders, shortly after the bomb blast in Durban.

  The nickname applied to a mysterious white woman rumoured to have been caught on surveillance video at Osama bin Laden’s hideout in Pakistan, just days before the mission that killed him. The witch was also thought to be an accomplice in three suicide bombing attacks in Kenya since bin Laden’s death. Suzanne Fessey had been hiding, underground, here in Durban in between missions for at least two years.

  ‘We now believe,’ Chris continued, ‘that rather than being an accomplice, Fessey was actually the mastermind behind the African attacks, including this latest one. As you know, the man who assassinated the ambassador by blowing himself up was her husband, a half-Nigerian undercover Boko Haram man, Omar Farhat.’

  ‘Where does the baby fit into all this?’ Jed asked. Suzanne Fessey had kissed her husband goodbye and sent him off on his mission to blow himself up. Why, then, was she willing to risk her life and the lives of the rest of her cell to get back her child? Mother’s instinct alone?

  ‘The terrorist cell working with or in support of Fessey has a new target: those three children or, more specifically, something they have. I don’t believe it’s just about her child,’ Chris said.

  ‘Money?’ Franklin asked.

  ‘Always a strong motivator,’ said Chris. ‘Fessey and her people are hardline, ideologically motivated killers, but like all terrorist groups they need cash to wage war. It seems Fessey was on her way out of the country and she was going to start a new life, or a new operation. She may have had her stash of cash or valuables in her car. We’ve had cases before of terrorists trading in wildlife products to finance their operations.’

  ‘Rhino horn?’ Jed asked.

  ‘Could be,’ Chris replied. ‘That stuff’s worth more than gold or cocaine and it’s easily transportable.’

  ‘They’re risking a hell of a lot to get back some rhino horn, even if it is worth a lot,’ Franklin said to Chris.

  ‘Suzanne could have been taking some horn with her that she could sell for travel expenses – we suspect she was heading for Mozambique and from there somewhere further on. But that could be just petty cash. Suzanne’s late husband, Omar Farhat, was not some Boko Haram bush fighter. He was the son of a wealthy Nigerian oil family and converted from Christianity to Islam when he was at university in Paris. He studied accountancy and we know from his records he was top of his class, with a genius IQ.’

  ‘Money man?’ Jed asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chris.

  ‘He doesn’t fit the profile of a suicide bomber. He’s too smart, not some dumb kid with his head stuffed full of hatred and promises. Maybe something or someone forced his hand.’

  ‘Well what we do know,’ Chris said, ‘is that he was one of the youngest members of Osama’s inner circle in the old days of al-Qaeda, even though he was only in his late twenties at the time. We believe he and Suzanne secretly married in Pakistan in 2011, just before we got bin Laden. Both of them vanished.’

  ‘So Omar knew where al-Qaeda stashed its cash?’ Franklin asked.

  ‘Yes, a lot of it at least, maybe enough to set up an African franchise based out of South Africa,’ said Chris. ‘Also, and this is of more concern than one-man suicide bombings, Langley’s been getting reports of European-looking Muslims going shopping in Russia, and there have been a few suspicious Ivans visiting Africa lately; former military people we suspect of being in the arms trade. The current thinking is that someone in one of the al-Qaeda spin-offs is putting together another spectacular, maybe even shopping for a Soviet-era portable suitcase nuke.’

  Jed stroked his beard. It was the West’s biggest fear that somehow extremists might get hold of a nuclear device. ‘That would require serious money.’

  ‘Yes, and Omar would have known how to get it and, more importantly, where to hide it. We need to get hold of everything those South African teenagers took from Suzanne Fessey’s car before she does. We need them, and we need the baby. This is a matter of national security. Those kids can’t get away from us.’

  ‘How did Suzanne Fessey get away with living here for so long?’ Jed asked. ‘
Seems like we know a lot about her, and can connect her to other bombings. What have the South African security people been up to?’

  ‘Good questions, Jed,’ Chris said. ‘It would be easy for me to tell you that they’re just incompetent, but we think there are other issues in play here.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘On the face of it they’ve told us that they can’t get anything on Fessey, that she’s either innocent – meaning we were wrong about her – or too good at covering her movements and actions. Our suspicion, however, is that there are elements in the South African security service who were happy to let Suzanne and Omar do their own thing.’

  ‘That’s a big call,’ Jed said.

  Chris nodded. ‘There are, we understand, elements in the service and military who believe South Africa needs to be doing more to fight Islamic extremism on the continent, but the government’s been sympathetic to parts of the Middle East we don’t see as friends.’

  ‘You mean the hardliners in South Africa want something to blow up, literally, here?’ Jed asked.

  Chris looked him in the eyes. ‘Or someone.’

  Jed knew a lot of dirty stuff happened in the intelligence world, but would the intelligence people here in South Africa really allow a foreign ambassador to be assassinated on their home soil in order to galvanise their government to join the international fight against terrorism?

  Jed’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to Chris. ‘I really need to get this.’

  Chris looked mildly annoyed, but nodded. Jed walked out of the officers’ mess and down a flight of stairs.

  ‘Banks, it’s Mike Dunn.’

  Jed had already recognised the number. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m … Game Reserve. The two … baby are with me. Come …’

  ‘Mike, you’re breaking up. Say again, where are you?’ There was static then nothing. ‘Mike, say again, what is your location, are you at Mkhuze?’ That was where the missing children had last been spotted.