by Tony Park
Irina smiled to herself. It was easy, now that she looked back on it, for the journalist, Coonan, to have come to such a conclusion. He was a man, and like too many in his profession he’d been driven by a need to report sensationalism and salaciousness. She was a single, attractive Russian woman living by herself in a condo in Saigon, and she’d made regular, scheduled visits to a wealthy Vietnamese organised crime figure. Occasionally, she’d also visited the brothel. What Coonan hadn’t realised, however, was that she had never sold herself for money and that rather than going to the upmarket whorehouse to make money or receive her assignments, she’d gone there to collect cash. Madam Nhu’s was owned by her company.
Where she had fallen down, she realised as she flicked through the dossier in search of the photograph, was that she had dropped her guard and allowed herself to be photographed, followed and, ultimately, kidnapped. She would never make that mistake again, and the woman who had brought her undone and killed her business partner would die.
She was less worried about Tran – he would be replaced by someone within his organisation or else Irina would find another Vietnamese outfit to deal with – than she was about the woman. Irina came to the page she was looking for and stared into the cold, blank blue eyes of Sonja Kurtz.
The photograph was blurry, an enlargement of a low-resolution file ripped from the internet, but it was clear enough for Irina to recognise the woman immediately, and to commit her strong features to memory. The picture was from an article about the funeral of the American environmentalist and documentary filmmaker Sam Chapman. Irina had never heard of the man before her kidnapping but she conceded, now, that Coonan had come to the correct conclusion that the horn taken from the rhino on the night the Mozambican poachers had shot this Chapman had indeed been bound for Tran.
Irina thought about what she might have done if she were in Sonja Kurtz’s shoes. Probably the same thing. While she could empathise with Kurtz, Irina could not afford to let her live. Mikhail’s research had tracked her to the continent of her birth, to Africa, the same place Irina happened to be heading.
The Airbus touched down with a squeal of rubber and Irina looked from the file, whose salient points she had committed to memory, to the dry landscape that flashed by outside.
Irina felt refreshed from her sleep on the plane, one of the benefits of flying at the front of the aircraft, as she waited inside the terminal for Mikhail and Yuri to catch up with her. ‘See to the rifles, Yuri,’ she said to Mikhail’s number two.
‘Yes, Irina Petrovna,’ Yuri said, addressing her by her patronymic name, Petrovna, as a form of respect for his superior.
Irina and Mikhail cleared immigration quickly and a car was there to take them to the general aviation terminal, where they waited in an air-conditioned lounge for Yuri to catch up with them. Irina had coffee and read a local newspaper, New Era. On page five was an article about the SWAPO government getting tough on foreign ownership of land. Irina shook her head. She had managed to buy six thousand hectares of bushland, once used for sheep and cattle farming. The government was ranting, again, about absentee landlords, pointing the finger at Germans and other foreigners who lived abroad but maintained their game farms largely for their own private pursuits instead of the greater good of the people of Namibia.
That was exactly why Irina had bought her land, and why she was here to add to it, so she could have somewhere to retreat to in solitude whenever she felt the need to go hunting or to entertain her business associates. The hypocrisy of the situation was evidenced by the fact that she had paid a hefty bribe to a local government official and party member to smooth the way for her purchase. If anyone outside their circle or in the media asked, then the local authorities would point to the endangered species breeding program that Irina was establishing on her farm as a model of conservation management that would pay dividends for the local community and the environment. In reality, Irina would be breeding trophy antelope and lions to be shot by hunters.
Irina was about to put the newspaper down when a headline caught her eye. Rhino horn smugglers in court again. She read the story; the two Chinese men who had been arrested at the very airport they had just passed through with fourteen rhino horns in their possession had appeared in court for a second time. Bail had again been refused and the men’s advocate had entered pleas of not guilty. Irina folded the newspaper and passed it to Mikhail.
He read the article. ‘Still no mention in public about where the horns came from.’
Irina pursed her lips. They had been using Namibia as a conduit for horns taken in South Africa for some time, but this seizure was not from one of their suppliers. ‘Any ideas?’
Mikhail shrugged; it was a barely perceptible gesture thanks to the thickness of his neck and his massive shoulders. ‘I was trying to find out while you were in Vietnam. If they were South African, or taken by Mozambicans, we would have heard, but our people know nothing of a shipment this size. It doesn’t tally with what we know is in the market from South Africa, and what the police and army there have seized this year. It could be Zimbabwe.’
Irina mulled the figures over. ‘Perhaps they’re from stockpiles? We would have read online if there had been this many killed recently; there are only about eight hundred animals left in Zimbabwe.’
‘You’re thinking it’s from the aeroplane.’
Irina exhaled. ‘I don’t want to get my hopes up. It would be a shame if the aircraft has already been found by some local people and looted.’
Irina’s contact in southern Africa had alerted her to the internet news article about the discovery of the body of a South African flier on the plains just north of Etosha National Park. The man had been excited about the discovery and had put into place a plan of his own to investigate the discovery. He seemed to think it might be a clue as to the location of the missing transport aircraft crammed with rhino horn from Angola.
Her father had spoken of the lost Dakota every now and again, his tone full of the same reverence with which a treasure hunter might speak of a Spanish galleon full of gold doubloons. Her man in Africa had, in fact, been her father’s business contact during the war in Angola.
Her father, Dimitri Petrovna, had been a colonel in the KGB, based in Luanda, Angola, and her uncle Sasha had been captain of a fishing boat, trawling the international waters off the coast of that country and the old South West Africa. The two brothers had worked hand in hand, not only to further the cause of international communism in the Third World, but also to line their own pockets. When the Berlin Wall came down and Russia adopted a free market economy, Dimitri and Sasha had the experience, the money and the connections to set up a business empire that soon spanned several continents.
Yuri arrived with the bulky baggage and it was loaded into a twin engine turboprop aircraft, which the three of them boarded. A little over an hour later they were landing at Irina’s game farm.
It was good to be back in Africa. She could see why her father had loved it here, even though it had then been a war-ravaged country all but devoid of wildlife. It was the sky, Irina thought as she climbed into the open-topped Land Rover game viewer driven by Benjie, the manager of her farm. He had been a sheep farmer, but the German former owners of the property had been reluctant to invest the capital needed to keep the farm viable. Irina had inherited the farm, and Benjie van der Westhuizen – and his wife and two small children – as part of the deal.
Benjie was much older than her, having served in the same war as her father, but he was ruggedly handsome. He tipped his hat to her as he made sure she was seated. ‘I suppose you’ll want to rest,’ he said to her as he climbed into the driver’s seat. Mikhail and Yuri were in a second vehicle behind them, which would catch their dust. Irina liked to ride alone with Benjie. She enjoyed verbally sparring with him, and more.
‘What makes you think I’m tired? You know I don’t need much sleep.’
He glanced back over his shoulder as they took off. ‘I remember. So, I take it we’re going to the lodge?’ Benjie asked into the slipstream.
The Land Rover bounced over the red dirt road and Irina had to hang on to the safety bar in front of her. ‘Take me to Gemsbok Dam.’
Benjie glanced back at her. ‘Just us?’
She laughed. ‘No, you horny Afrikaner, all of us. I have a new toy I want to try out.’
Benjie looked up at the sun, riding high above them. ‘It’s nearly midday, Irina. We’ll be lucky to find any game at all at this time of day.’
‘Oh, you’ll find them,’ she said. ‘That’s why I pay you, to keep me satisfied.’
Benjie laughed, then drove off the road to the rutted track that led to Gemsbok Dam, the largest waterhole on the farm.
She knew they were close to the dam, but she was surprised when Benjie pulled over and switched off the engine after a few minutes of driving. He took the .375-calibre hunting rifle from its padded case on the rack across the dashboard, got out of the vehicle, and worked the bolt to chamber a round.
‘Why are we stopping here?’
‘It’s the middle of the day. The animals will be surprised if we show up at the waterhole in the vehicles. They’re more used to us going on game drives in the early morning and late afternoon. We’ll walk in. It’s only a kilometre or so.’
Irina climbed down. Mikhail and Yuri pulled up behind them and the following breeze blew dust over her, which Irina waved away. ‘Get the case down,’ she said to Yuri in Russian.
Yuri produced a set of keys and undid the padlocks securing the long aluminium case. Irina tapped him on the arm to move him aside and knelt in the dust. She opened the case almost reverently. Inside was a 7.62-millimetre Dragunov sniper’s rifle. It wasn’t a hand-crafted hunting rifle, it was a workmanlike piece of equipment, the Russian military’s chosen weapon for its marksmen. Its utilitarian nature aside, it was still, Irina thought, a thing of beauty, with its futuristic – for its time – stock, enclosed handgrip and its long lines. She lifted the rifle from the case.
‘Fill me a magazine, Yuri,’ she ordered as she peered through the telescopic sights, aiming at a bush two hundred metres off. She pictured Sonja Kurtz in the crosshairs.
‘There’s 7.62 in the ammo box in the back of my Land Rover,’ Benjie said to Yuri, pointing to where the bullets were. ‘I brought some for the two AK-47s in case you wanted to fire them as well. Will that be OK for your Dragunov?’
Irina nodded. ‘I would have preferred the special sniper cartridges, but that will suffice. We may use the AKs later.’ Yuri deftly loaded ten rounds into the box magazine and handed it to Irina, who fitted it and cocked the rifle.
Benjie lifted a sand-coloured military-style hiking pack from the front passenger seat of the Land Rover, shrugged it on and took up his rifle. ‘Shall we?’
‘Have you seen lions lately?’ Irina asked as they walked.
‘Yes, at Gemsbok Dam, just two days ago. The pride is doing well. One of the lionesses was pregnant and I didn’t see her with the group, so she’s most likely left the pride to have her cubs.’
‘That’s exciting,’ Irina said.
As they continued through the dry, thorny bushveld Irina felt the adrenaline pumping through her body, banishing any tiredness she might not have slept off in first class. Her father had first taken her hunting in Siberia when she was twelve. She had cried when she’d shot her first red deer, but her father had explained to her as he’d butchered the dead animal the importance of what he was teaching her. The meat from the deer had fed them and her mother waiting at home, and Irina’s father had told her the skills that she was learning and would hone as a hunter – tracking, reading the wind and animal behaviour, and having the courage to overcome her emotions – would stand her in good stead when she grew up. He was right, Irina mused as she followed Benjie’s footsteps, careful not to make too much noise. Sonja Kurtz was a hunter, a predator, and Irina would need all of her skills and more to corner her quarry and dispatch her.
Benjie raised his hand and Irina stopped. Benjie pointed ahead and to the right. Through the bushes Irina could see sunlight glinting on the surface of the waterhole. She put the butt of her rifle on the ground, resting the barrel between her legs, and lifted the binoculars hanging around her neck. On the other side of the waterhole was a magnificent male kudu. He was drinking while his two companions scoured the surrounding bush and the edge of the pan for danger.
‘How old do you think he is?’ Irina asked Benjie.
‘Two and a half twists on his horns, a nice long mane under his neck – I’d say about six years old. He’s in his prime.’
Irina had begun shooting for the pot, her family consuming everything she and her father shot, but in later years she had developed a taste for trophy hunting, lining first the walls of her dacha outside Moscow and more recently her Namibian safari lodge with the biggest and best examples of every species she could hunt.
‘I want him.’ Irina suppressed a smile. She didn’t want to look too keen. ‘I need to get closer.’
She turned to Mikhail and Yuri and motioned for them to wait where they were. Benjie led off and she followed him, her Dragunov held up and ready across her chest.
They did not have to walk far, only another seventy metres, until Benjie positioned them to the right of the three kudus, at the edge of the cover the thornbush provided. If they moved into open ground to close the distance between them the animals would see them and run.
‘Do you need a support, a tree maybe?’ Benjie said quietly.
Irina shook her head. Her father had taught her to shoot without a brace or a bipod. She moved her left foot forward a little and bent her leg slightly, moving most of her weight onto that leg. She pulled the butt of the rifle hard into her right shoulder and slid her index finger through the trigger guard. Irina knew where to aim; the kudu was standing in a perfect position, its left side towards her. She placed the crosshairs on the spot just to the rear of where the bull’s left front leg met its body, right over the heart. She breathed in and out, watching the sights rise and fall. After taking her next breath she exhaled half of it, until the crosshairs were back on the heart. Irina began to squeeze her whole right hand, not just applying pressure on the trigger, just as her father had taught her.
A musical tone sounded behind her and the kudu took flight, all three of them leaping high into the air and then bounding away.
‘Ty che blyad?’ Irina snarled.
‘What?’ Benjie asked.
‘What the fuck is that?’ Irina repeated, in English. The ringtone got louder and Mikhail barrelled his way through the bush to her.
‘You idiot,’ she barked.
‘Forgive me, Irina Petrovna. It’s Miro. You said I must keep the satellite phone on at all times in case he called and –’
‘I know what I said.’ She snatched the phone from him and stabbed the answer button. ‘Da?’
Irina listened to the report from her man on the ground in southern Africa. Miro was a Serb, based in Johannesburg, who acted as her local contact with the South Africans who sourced rhino horn, diamonds and other local commodities for her, and assisted with logistics and shipping.
‘Unacceptable,’ she said into the phone. ‘Find another helicopter and a pilot who will collect some reinforcements from the trawler.’
She ended the call. Mikhail took it back from her and raised his eyebrows.
‘That idiot, Miro . . . The local hit men he contracted to kill Allchurch and Brand failed. He sent two more in a helicopter and Sonja Kurtz and the others brought down the chopper and killed them as well.’
Irina ran a hand through her hair. She was surrounded by incompetents. Miro had been a spymaster during the Cold War and he did, at least, have a good network of informants throughout Namibia. Irina knew that Brand, Allchurch and Kur
tz would now start searching for the downed aircraft. She had to get there before them, and with enough firepower to protect her consignment if it turned out that the missing aircraft was found and the rumoured cargo was still present. She already had one of her fleet of shipping trawlers in the Atlantic, off the coast of Namibia, waiting to take the cargo on board. The crew were hard men, many of them combat veterans, and they would be her muscle.
‘Irina!’ Benjie hissed.
She turned and saw the guide and hunter raise his rifle. He was peering into the bush, and as she followed his eye line she heard a low menacing growl.
‘What is it?’ Mikhail said.
‘Quiet. Back up, slowly,’ Irina said to the bodyguards.
She tossed the phone to Mikhail and raised her own rifle again. Not a bird called, not an insect chirped. A tawny blur erupted from the khaki bush ahead of Irina and rocketed towards Benjie, whose rifle shattered the silence.
The lioness’s head and forequarters came into view as she leapt at Benjie and her body seemed to rock in mid-air as his bullet hit her, but when the big cat hit the ground she kept coming at him. Irina took aim at the moving target and fired, twice.
Benjie went down, the lioness landing on top of him, her claws instinctively attacking, raking at the guide underneath her. Irina ran forward and fired twice more into the lioness.
‘Are you alive?’ she panted.
Benjie, white-faced and shaking, tried to crawl out from underneath the dead lioness. Mikhail and Yuri, at first tentative, caught up with Irina and helped her move the big cat off Benjie. When they had rolled the cat over Irina saw that the lioness’s nipples were distended and she certainly did not look pregnant. Irina put out her hand and Benjie clasped it. She pulled him to his feet. ‘Talk to me.’
Benjie seemed incapable of speaking at first. He coughed and turned to look at the dead cat. ‘I . . . I heard her.’
‘And you probably saved us,’ Irina said. ‘You’re bleeding, Benjie. Mikhail, use the satellite phone to call an ambulance.’