by Leon Mare
The Mozambican government was still doing the ground work for their rigged solution to the problem, when they were surprised by the scream of four South African Impala jets, executing a low-level attack on two ANC safe houses on the outskirts of Maputo. Both buildings were completely destroyed, and within minutes the Impalas were heading back towards Hoedspruit air force base, escorted at high altitude by three Cheetahs, acting as a deterrent against the Mozambicans sending a squadron of their ancient MIGs after the Impalas.
This once again evoked the standard political furore. It was a farce, and everyone knew it, but everyone went through the drill nevertheless. The South Africans claimed eleven ANC terrorists dead, the Mozambicans claimed twenty civilians dead. The United Nations was in an uproar, and many more indignant speeches were made, and new resolutions were laid down.
Every ambitious public figure in the neighbouring black states screamed for more sanctions, their bellies comfortably filled with food imported from South Africa and paid for with money skimmed from African Aid programmes.
None of this made any impression on Sam. His superficial bruises and scratches were of no consequence. In the days that followed, his grief was slowly undergoing a metamorphosis, turning into blinding rage. There was no doubt in his mind that Joao was responsible and that the attack had been aimed at him, not at Linda. He had known where in Mozambique Joao was, he would have crossed the border and killed him without the slightest hesitation. He also knew that Joao was much too cunning to be caught in a safe house by a team of recces or an air strike.
The funeral in Johannesburg was attended by hundreds of people, among them most of the directors of the Parks Board. Sam had said his farewells to Linda on the night of the incident, and had no desire to attend the public display of a funeral, but there was no way he could refuse to attend.
He suffered the empty condolences of family and friends next to the open grave, none of them having the slightest inkling as to the depth of his grief, loneliness and fury.
And then Estelle was there, looking at him through red swollen eyes. ‘Oh God, I am so terribly, terribly sorry.’ She touched his cheek briefly with her fingertips, biting her lower lip between her teeth. As fresh tears sprang into her eyes, she shook her head from side to side and fled.
‘You utter bastard,’ a voice said behind him. He turned around to find Smitty standing there, hate written all over his face.
‘I know,’ he said and walked away from Smitty.
‘Don’t just walk away, you are responsible for this, damn you!’ Some heads started turning in their direction, but Sam kept on walking away. ‘I know,’ he whispered once more.
After the funeral he intended spending a few days with his parents, but by the second evening he was feeling claustrophobic. In the middle of dinner, he laid his knife and fork down and pushed his chair back. ‘I have to go back.’
Startled, both his parents looked up. ‘Don’t be stupid, what are you going to do down there all by yourself? Stay for a couple of days and rest. Your animals will survive without you.’
‘It’s not that, Mother, but I have to think, and get my life together. And I can do that better when I’m home.’
‘But this is your home,’ his mother countered.
‘I know, Mother, but you know that’s not what I meant.’ He smiled at them lamely. They wouldn’t understand, so it was no use trying to explain to them that he just had to get away from people again for a while.
His parents knew him well enough not to pursue the argument, and they accepted his decision without further ado. As he walked to the front door with his bags, he stopped next to the phone in the foyer. On impulse, refusing to think ahead, he picked it up and phoned Estelle. His parents looked at each other, their faces deadpan.
She answered the phone herself. ‘Estelle?’
‘Hello, Sam.’
He could not read anything in her voice. ‘Listen, I’m leaving now. I was wondering if I could drop by and . . . well, say goodbye.’
‘You are leaving for Nwanetzi at this time of night?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I am on my way out to the car now.’
A prolonged silence ensued. ‘Estelle?’
‘Well, I suppose I can make you some coffee.’
She opened the front door before he could ring the bell. The greetings were cool but cordial, and her parents were not in evidence.
‘Take a seat, I’m busy with the coffee,’ and she disappeared into the kitchen.
He experienced a vague sense of unease in the familiar surroundings as they sat sipping their coffee, neither knowing what to say to the other. She eventually broke the silence. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Same as I have been doing for the past months. Try to get you back. After I get Joao.
She nearly dropped her cup. ‘You think it was him?’
‘I know it. And he will come after me again. I can’t get to him, so I will have to wait for him to come to me. Will you answer my letters in the meantime?’
‘You are going to get yourself killed. Can’t you get the army or the police to catch him when he crosses the border again?’
‘No. And you haven’t answered my question.’
She smiled. ‘You are insane. And you are impulsive.’
‘I am not impulsive! I have never stopped loving you!’
‘Don’t raise your voice. I think you must go now, you are confusing me, and I refuse to allow anyone to hurt me again. Ever.’
Her walking to the front door forced him to get up and follow. ‘Estelle, please listen.’
In the door she turned around and laid a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t. Just go, please.’ She swept past him suddenly and disappeared up the stairs. He stood in the doorway for a long time before leaving, closing the door softly behind him.
A well dressed lawyer boarded the 7.30 a.m. Comair flight from Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg, bound for Skukuza. In his hand he carried a thin ostrich leather attaché case, which he preferred holding on his lap, rather than placing it in the shelf for hand baggage. On arrival he purchased a tourist map of the game reserve in the curio shop, and rented a Volkswagen Golf from Avis.
Occasionally consulting the map, he headed for Nwanetzi, execrating the rental people for not being able to supply a Mercedes.
He was hot and bothered by the time he arrived, and the scene at Sam’s gate did nothing to improve his mood. Sam was out on a patrol somewhere, and the stubborn old fossil that shuffled up to the gate refused to let him wait inside. The old bugger proved to be immune to both threats and bribery, so he was confined to the discomfort of the small car without air-conditioning.
He went back to Satara for lunch and, relishing that he was not going to get back to an airport in time, booked a hut for the evening.
When he stopped in front of the gate again later in the afternoon, it was Sam who opened it himself. So this was the man, the lawyer thought. He had been curious about this man who had swept Linda’s feet from under her without apparent effort. They had grown up in Upper Houghton together, and over the years he had watched an endless succession of very eligible young suitors try their utmost, to no avail. He had been convinced that she was immune to emotional involvement, until she had come to see him that day.
He introduced himself as David Finklestein, while trying to ignore the big dog growling at his buttocks. ‘Mr Jenkins, Linda was a very old and dear friend of mine. She came to see me about a month ago in my capacity as a lawyer. You were the subject of our discussions. Shall we go inside?’ The dog now practically had its nose up his backside, and the growling had taken on a note he did not much care for.
What the hell, Sam thought, inviting the man in. ‘Don’t mind the dog, he won’t bite. Just don’t make any sudden moves.’
Sudden moves were the farthest thing from Finklestein’s mind as he gingerly preceded Sam into the house.
‘Can I offer you anything?
‘No, thank you. This shouldn’t t
ake long.’ Finklestein opened the attaché case on his knees and extracted a large manila envelope. ‘I assume you will want to read this in privacy. Linda brought it to me for safe keeping, to be delivered to you personally if anything should happen to her within the next six months. I do not care to speculate on the contents, but I have got a bad feeling about all the cloak and dagger stuff. Having known her for the best part of twenty-three years, however, I am sure she had a very good reason for doing this. Be that as it may, I have also got a few documents for you to sign. It is for the release of some money she left in our trust fund for you. Apparently the contents of the envelope will shed more light on this.’
‘I don’t want her money. What about her family?’
‘She has got no family. Will you sign these for us, please?’
Sam signed the documents without reading them, but his eye caught a figure that stunned him. ‘Jesus! One hundred and fifty thousand rand! What the hell am I supposed to do with it?’
‘Her father was a very wealthy man, Mr Jenkins. When her parents died, she inherited a fortune. It is going to take us a very long time to finalise her will, which I am at liberty to divulge, she has also changed.’
Sam was stunned as he handed back the signed papers. Finklestein got up and the dog in the doorway also got up and started growling. ‘Do you think you can sort of do something about that dog till I’m in my car?’
‘Eh? Oh, the dog. Don’t mind him, just don’t make any sudden moves.’
It was clear that Sam’s mind was elsewhere, as he kept turning the large envelope over in his hands.
After seeing the lawyer off her poured himself a large whisky and retired to his office. With a sense of foreboding he broke the heavy seal on the envelope and extracted a sheaf of hand-written copy:
Sam. My love: If ever there is the need for you read this, then know that my soul is reaching out to you in pity. For to die is easier than to be left behind, alone in your grief.
You have showed me what being alive means – thank you, Sam, you’ve made it all worthwhile, I feel so very sorry for the pain I have caused Estelle, but pity for someone else just never weighed up against my love for you.
And now for the reason for all this: Duncan Courie is in some way involved in the ivory and rhino horn trade. I have no concrete proof as yet, but I’m working on it. This is what I’ve got so far: One, Courie seems to be holding a very powerful position in organised crime – I overheard him giving instructions to have somebody in the Customs Department killed. Two, a short while ago he had some trouble getting a consignment out of the country. Three, he conducts his business in Swaziland and Mozambique over weekends. Four, I went through his desk last night, and I found a map of the Kruger Park – a pick-up point or meeting place or something was marked a short distance up the Sweni fire break. Five, he had two consultations with your man Joao dos Santos while he was in the hospital. He had been questioned about this by the police.
It is my fervent wish what I’m overreacting, but if you ever get to read this, he has most probably had me killed, so if my death looks like an accident, don’t take it at face value.
Thank you again for showing me life. I will love you always. Please forgive me for causing you all this pain.
Dying is easy – it is for you that I cry.
Love
Linda
He sat back in his chair and stared at the wall blankly. So Courie had set Joao on her, she had really been the target. He looked at the sheets of paper in his hands again. Linda, he thought, I am not a killer but, as Courie signed your death warrant, so have you just signed his. This I promise you . . .
The next morning after radio session Sam launched a search for the pick-up point. He had decided to cover the whole 28 kilometres of the Sweni first. He relieved his rangers of all other duties and spread them over a hundred yards on either side of the fire break.
They found the place within an hour. In the trampled undergrowth under the big tree, Aaron had come across a piece of heavy-duty grease paper and some small pieces of cardboard. Closer inspection revealed a considerable quantity of cigarette ends, and an empty packet of foreign manufacture. Very careless, Sam thought, this is going to cost you bastards. They retreated with as little disturbance to the environment as possible, wiping out their tracks. Sam declared the whole of the Sweni area off limits to his rangers, till further notice.
Back at the house, he called Aaron into his office, where they remained for the rest of the morning. When Aaron eventually returned to the compound, he was grinning from ear to ear, but no amount of cajoling by his friends could get a word out of him. He just sat at the cooking fire grinning, occasionally shaking his head from side to side.
Duncan Courie knew he was in for another hectic day. Since Linda’s demise, he had had to handle two people’s work and the strain was getting him down. He would have to find another partner, the sooner the better. He was working on a possible settlement in a divorce case, when his secretary entered his office.
‘Yes, Ashley?’ without looking up.
‘There is a man at reception who wants to see you immediately sir. He is very insistent. I have explained to him that you will under no circumstances see him without an appointment, but he is adamant.’
Courie sighed and looked at his watch. ‘Mrs. Shear is due any minute now. Show her in the moment she arrives, and tell the gentleman at reception to either make an appointment or push off.’ He returned to his calculations.
A minute later there was a commotion outside his door, and Aaron strode in without knocking, the furious secretary trailing behind in his wake.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Courie jumped up from behind his desk.
Aaron held out both hands in a placatory gesture and smiled. ‘Mr Courie, my apologies for barging in like this. Please sit down. One word in total privacy and I guarantee you will listen to me.’
Courie regarded the man in front of him. Casually but neatly dressed, open-necked shirt with short sleeves, new and obviously expensive shoes and slacks. He had a look of intelligent determination in his eyes. Courie nodded at his shaking secretary, and she closed the door as she left.
‘Can I talk?’
‘You had better. Fast.’
‘I am Terrence Radebe from Soweto. I bring an urgent message from Joao dos Santos.’
Courie’s breath escaped in a long hiss as he collapsed back into his chair. Joao had explicit instructions to remain under cover in Mozambique for the last six weeks, and maintain a low profile. And then again, this might be a police trap. He had told the police that he was going to represent Joao in court (until his escape, that is) and that their relationship had been strictly on a professional basis. They couldn’t prove that he had met Joao in Mozambique or Swaziland but they’d kept on pestering him about that.
‘Look, I don’t know you from Adam, and Joao is no longer a client of mine.’
‘He told me to tell you that he completed his mission, and that a guy by the name of Jenkins is hurting, whoever that may be. Apparently that should mean something to you.’
‘What the fuck is he doing up there, and how did he get there?’
‘He is not up there, but now that I have your attention . . .’
Courie held his hand up for silence and pressed the intercom. ‘Ashley, please hold all calls, and apologise to Mrs. Shear. We have a crisis.’ He released the button and sat back down again. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I am on holiday with my family, and we are spending a few nights in Satara. Last night, having put the kids to bed, the wife and I were having a nightcap on the veranda of our bungalow, when a man approached me. At the time I assumed he was another tourist, taking a stroll through the camp. You know how things are when you’re on holiday – you even talk to strangers. Well, we struck up a conversation, he had drinks with us, and all the time he was probing me to find out where my sympathies lie.’
‘And just where do your sympathies lie, Mr Radebe?’
>
‘Money, Mr Courie, money. He promised me five grand to bring you this message. He gave me half up front, with the promise that you would give me the other half. In notes, please,’ Radebe grinned.
With disgust Courie looked at the expression of greed on the other man’s face. ‘For five grand this must be some message.’
‘I can’t make head or tail of it, Mr Courie, but it sure sounds as if it is something you would want to know about.’
‘So get to the point.’
‘I think we should conclude the ah, monetary side of our deal first, Mr Courie. If you don’t mind.’
Courie got up and left the office, returning five minutes later with a thick envelope which he threw down in front of Radebe. ‘Now quit stalling,’ he said, not trying to hide his disgust.
‘One moment,’ Radebe said and started counting the money, adding to Courie’s fury.
‘Right,’ he said after a while, distributing the notes among the available pockets of his shirts and slacks. ‘It seems that the word has filtered down to Joao that someone, either your bosses or your partners, are very unhappy about the way in which you have solved some problem or other recently. You are to be thrown to the wolves. I don’t know what all this means, but it sure as hell sounds as if you’re up shit creek without a paddle. Maybe you could use some help. Joao also says that this plot to expose you to the authorities may already be in operation, so it is quite possible that you are already being watched, and the usual channels of communication are also suspect. He is waiting for you right now under some big tree in the Park that you know about. If you are really being followed, I would suggest you leave by the back door and let me take you to a place where you can rent a car.’
Courie had lost what little colour he had, and sat thinking for a while. ‘No, I want nothing on record. You take me.’