‘How quickly can you get moving?’
Michael looked at his watch. A little after two. He could be on the road in half-an-hour, Durban around midnight and Ulundi three hours after that. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Deluxe. Oh, one more thing. I have a contact in Ulundi. Edward . . . forget his last name. He’s retired but used to work as a tracker for a safari company in Botswana. Zulu through and through and he’s straight from the last century. Hates progress, hates fences and has absolutely no regard for the law. He’s expecting you.’
‘Expecting me. You mean we went through all of this . . .’
‘Just checking you out.’ Devilliers chuckled. ‘Annie was right. I can trust you. Good luck.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Deluxe.’
Despite the hour a paraffin lamp glowed through the window at the address Devilliers had given him. The door opened before Michael turned off the engine. ‘I see you, Nkosi. Come,’ he beckoned.
Michael followed. The house was an oblong, concrete block building, basic, untidy and not very clean. Inside, the Zulu’s bloodshot eyes sized Michael up. ‘This white man with the task of a lion is no more than a spotted cub himself,’ he muttered in Zulu.
Michael replied in the same tongue. ‘It is for this reason that the old lion comes with him.’
Edward cackled. The few teeth left in his head were brown with age. But despite his obvious years, he was sinewy, with well-muscled arms and legs. A veil of grey, like a sprinkling of castor sugar, covered his hair. He was wearing old khaki shorts and nothing else. ‘So, cub. You speak my language as one of us. Tell me. This man you seek, is he a clever one?’
‘Like a leopard.’
‘Aahhh!’ Edward breathed, strangely satisfied. ‘Tell me of him. Then you must sleep.’
Although tired, Michael sensed how important it was for Edward to understand Jackson. He told him everything, leaving nothing out. Edward listened in silence, not interrupting once.
‘A leopard, you say,’ he commented when Michael stopped. ‘I think he is more dangerous than a leopard.’
‘Is anything more dangerous than a leopard?’
‘Two leopards.’ Edward pointed to a corner where a mattress lay. ‘Sleep. There will be no rest after this night.’
Michael hadn’t realised how tired he was. When Edward shook him awake it was almost ten in the morning. The Zulu had brought in all his equipment from the vehicle. ‘You carry a lot of useless baggage.’
‘If all goes well tonight you can have most of it.’
Edward bent and examined a price tag still attached to the tent. ‘It costs a lot of money, this peace you seek.’
‘If that is all it costs, it will be worth it.’
Edward grunted non-committally as he searched through Michael’s tool kit. ‘Wire cutters. Good.’ He removed them along with a roll of soft wire.
‘Done this sort of thing before, have you?’ Michael grinned.
‘Many times,’ Edward admitted blandly. ‘A man has to eat.’
Michael took the shotgun from its canvas case. ‘Do you know how to use this?’
‘You trust an old man with it?’
‘Old lion, I am trusting you with more than a shotgun.’
‘Have no second thoughts, cub. I am your man.’
‘You are Sacha Devilliers’ man too. Remind me to ask you about that.’
‘Ah!’ Edward said. ‘That is a different thing entirely.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘Your leopard keeps out of sight this morning but he has had two visitors. Both carried something heavy. Both left with nothing.’
Michael nodded. ‘Mines.’
‘And you think he will move tonight?’
‘Before then. It’s twenty miles to the western side of the reserve and there are no roads in from this side. It’s rough and remote country out there. He’ll stick to the railway line until it crosses the river, pick up the boundary fence and follow it north. The tourist loop roads are maybe another six or seven miles from there. He’ll want to be inside the reserve by nightfall. It’s just about a full moon. He can lay the mines and be gone by dawn.’
‘But what if an animal steps on one? Won’t he wait until tomorrow?’
‘I don’t think so. Too risky. He’s probably aware of the routes they will take, it’s the usual VIP game-viewing tour. Guaranteed good sightings right up in the top corner, well away from the main camp. If an animal accidentally sets off a mine the explosion is unlikely to be heard.’
An urgent knocking at the door interrupted them. Edward opened it and a young man, maybe twenty years old, stepped inside, glanced at Michael, then spoke rapidly to the older man. ‘He goes now.’
Edward looked over at Michael. ‘You were right. The leopard does not wait for darkness.’ He turned back to the younger man. ‘Which way? How does he travel?’
‘By the railway, Babu. Walking alone towards the morning sun.’
‘Is he carrying anything?’ Michael cut in.
‘Yes Nkosi, on his back. It is heavy.’
‘What do you want to do, young cub?’ Edward asked Michael before speaking to the younger man. ‘You have done well. Go now.’
‘We must follow. Can you track him if he leaves the railway line?’
‘Am I a tracker or a blind man?’ Edward asked, outraged.
‘We’re about to find out,’ Michael replied soberly. ‘Damn it! I haven’t sighted the rifle.’
‘You are hunting a leopard, not a buffalo.’
He had a point. Better to travel light. Besides, a single bullet was not the vengeance he sought.
NINETEEN
They were probably an hour behind Jackson. Ulundi had been relatively cool but it quickly became hot and still as they dropped towards the White Umfolozi River. Much to Michael’s relief the threatening cumulus clouds had come to nothing.
Tracking Jackson was child’s play for Edward. At one point their quarry left the railway, but it was only to relieve his bowels. The discovery caused Michael to wish that Edward was not quite that good. They were about to move on again when Edward gave a sudden exclamation of surprise. ‘The leopard is armed. See where he put his pack down.’
The indentation in the sandy soil would have gone unnoticed by Michael. His eyes followed Edward’s finger. Next to a slight hollow left by something bulky and heavy was the faint outline of a gun stock. ‘Not taking any chances,’ Michael observed.
‘This one is too sure of himself,’ Edward remarked as they returned to the railway tracks. ‘He does not stop to check behind.’
‘How far ahead is he now?’
‘Perhaps thirty minutes. No more.’
Thirty minutes! So close. With a conscious effort Michael pushed all thoughts other than Jackson Mpande from his mind. It was better that way. However he looked at his intention it still amounted to premeditated, first-degree murder. Michael had done with soul-searching. He’d run the emotional gauntlet – Jennifer, Jeremy, Tessa, Dyson – tried the justification route – South Africa, with her history of blood and betrayal, of tribes and races with impossible differences, of traditional foes struggling to develop, to live side-by-side in relative peace.
It was all bullshit.
What it boiled down to was there was not enough space on this earth for Michael King and Jackson Mpande to share. The reasons were no longer clear-cut, they’d been blurred by rage, revenge, by that one single thought that Jackson had to die.
At the river they found where Jackson had left the railway line. He had followed the river for perhaps three miles before turning north along the high game fence which formed the western boundary of the game reserve.
‘Why didn’t he stay with the river?’ Edward wondered. It would have made more sense. The White Umfolozi ran straight into the reserve.
‘You forget. He is used to doing the unexpected. There will be a hell of a fuss if he’s successful so he’s blurring the edges a little. That’s how he’s been trained.’
It was
a little after four in the afternoon. Jackson was making no effort to hide his footprints.
‘He does not yet know we follow,’ Edward observed when they found where Jackson had slipped under the fence at a point dug and regularly used by warthog.
‘Why would he?’ Michael commented, crawling through the small gap.
‘He is a leopard. He will know soon enough.’ He joined Michael inside the reserve. ‘This is clever to use such a place. His tracks will soon be hidden. We must think ahead of him.’
‘I’m already ahead of the bastard. What is Umfolozi known for?’ Michael didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Rhino. And where do the rhino hang out? All over. Sometimes you see them, sometimes you don’t. No good. You’ve got buses full of VIPs who can’t be disappointed. So where do you take them? Somewhere sightings are virtually guaranteed. Top corner. The northern loop roads.’
‘You said all that before,’ Edward pointed out. ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Mpande operates on a law of averages but he’s got to take some chances. I doubt he could carry any more than four mines. So he’ll maximise the opportunities by minimising the chances.’
‘Speak Zulu, young cub. You make no sense in English.’
Michael switched. ‘He doesn’t know which loops the buses will take. But there is only one road there and back. That’s where he’ll start. When we reach the road I’ll do the bush, you watch the road. And no talking. Laying the mines will slow him up and we must keep the element of surprise. Let’s go.’
They walked in silence, reaching the road in less than fifteen minutes. It was crisscrossed with animal spoor over even the most recent vehicle tracks. They turned north again. The dull heat of the day had abated and game was starting to stir. Through years of experience detecting the whereabouts of rhinoceros, Michael was looking through the bush, not at it. He was relying on Edward for their direction. Even when the Zulu stopped suddenly, Michael’s concentration was one hundred per cent focused on picking up the slightest shape or movement that was out of keeping with the surrounding country. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.
They were at a fork in the road and Edward was staring at Jackson’s tracks. ‘What does a man do when he lays a mine?’
‘Digs a hole.’ Michael tensed, then relaxed. The movement he’d seen off to the left was the twitching of a kudu’s ear.
Edward pointed. ‘He laid his pack down there.’ A bit of flattened grass at the edge of the road. But for the lack of shade it might have been caused by an animal lying down. ‘Do not move,’ Edward hissed. He was half-crouched, his eyes slits as he scanned the ground. The shadows already fell long. Soon they would disappear in the dark of dusk.
‘Potholes,’ Michael said hoarsely. ‘A vehicle would go around them.’ He felt suddenly cold. There was one just beside his right foot. Between it and the flattened grass was a space of no more than a metre and he was slap in the fucking middle of it. He felt Edward’s hand on his arm.
‘Step back.’
‘You sure?’
‘No.’
Fucking great! ‘Where is it?’
‘The toe of your left boot.’
Michael looked down. The ground looked normal enough but then he saw what Edward meant. A swept area, devoid even of ant tracks. The toe of his left boot jutted on to it.
‘Jesus!’
Gingerly, he crouched and brushed at the sand around his boot. His fingers encountered something solid and he froze. ‘Jesus!’ he whispered again.
Another centimetre and he’d have been on the rim. Standing, he went to move away, then stopped. What if there was another one? But Edward shook his head. ‘Only one. You are safe.’
With legs like jelly, Michael stepped back.
Edward would not look at him. ‘I apologise. I did not see it.’ He was deeply guilt-stricken. His professionalism had let him down and the embarrassment he felt was total.
Michael knew the Zulu did not expect forgiveness and would despise any attempt at pity. ‘If the eyes of the lion are too old to see, now would be a good time to say so.’
Edward looked at his feet. ‘They are not too old.’ He made no excuse.
‘Very well.’
It was all that could be said. If Michael had been black he would not have dared to censure the older man. If Edward had been white Michael would probably have throttled him. Both knew it. Each respected the other’s culture sufficiently to accept the less than satisfactory compromise.
Edward looked fearfully at where the mine was hidden. ‘I know nothing of these things.’
Michael didn’t know very much about them either. He vaguely remembered being told that the Soviet-made TM-46 mines used in the Caprivi needed a weight of at least 300 kilograms on the pressure plate to cause detonation. So what? They were invariably unreliable and anyway, what if the device at his feet were something else? He advanced on the landmine, half expecting it to be booby-trapped. Lowering himself gingerly to the ground, flat on his stomach, he carefully dug around the sides of the mine. It was an evil-looking thing, like a round ham tin but for the fact that it was packed with TNT. Having cleared the way, Michael lifted it from the hole. He assumed it would need to be disarmed but had no idea how that was done. They could not carry it with them but neither man wanted to leave it lying off the road for some unsuspecting animal to tread on. In the end, Michael wedged it into the fork of a tree. It was the best he could do.
Edward, anxious to make amends, had moved on up the road, taking more notice than ever of its surface. As Michael set off after him Edward disappeared around a bend about a hundred metres ahead. Seconds later Michael heard a shot, followed immediately by the distinctive ‘thunk’ of a bullet finding its mark. Instinctively, he dived off the road, rolled over and slid backwards into the shrubbery, reaching frantically for the pistol at his belt. One shot. There was no follow-up but the shotgun carried by Edward also remained silent. From where Michael lay, he could not see the road. He had little doubt it was Jackson. And, with each passing minute, his hopes for Edward were fading. Michael’s only option was to stay put and wait.
Jackson Mpande had lived too long in the bush to ignore the ever-increasing feeling that someone was behind him. It was instinct, nothing tangible, but he knew better than to carry on without checking. Having laid the first mine, he moved quickly along the road, finding somewhere close to hide. Screened behind bushes, he eased out of his pack and set the AK-47 to semi-automatic fire. Then he waited.
There was no reason to assume that he was being followed but then, the South Africans had got wind of other SWAPO operations in advance so the possibility of informers at Base 37 could not be ruled out. It would be dark in just under two hours. That was fine. The moon was nearly full and the clouds of earlier in the afternoon had rolled away. He had three more mines to lay before turning back to the fence. By morning, he would be long gone, heading south for Kwa-Mashu.
Hunkered down, Kalashnikov assault rifle at the ready, Jackson’s mind was on only one thing. The job at hand. Half-an-hour later, his caution was rewarded when an African appeared around the bend in the road. The shotgun, slung over one shoulder, showed he was not trained for this sort of thing but Jackson knew immediately that the man was following his tracks. With no hesitation, he fired, grunting with satisfaction as his target crumpled and fell, like a floppy ragdoll, the solid 7.62mm bullet striking home, just below the heart.
Jackson waited. There could be more than one. No-one came. The man on the road had not moved. Jackson studied him. Barefoot, threadbare shorts, T-shirt, he was certainly not military. Nor was he a ranger, too scruffy. A poacher? Perhaps. There were plenty of animal tracks on the road, it was possible that he had been after four-legged prey. Twenty minutes went by and still no-one came. Leaving his pack, Jackson cautiously approached the fallen man.
Edward was not dead. Some terrible force had hit him unseen, knocking him backwards. His chest felt as though he’d been charged by a Cape buffalo. He could not move. After what se
emed like an eternity, a face appeared above him. Jackson Mpande. Cold eyes stared down at him but Edward was too far gone for fear. The agony in his chest was so acute he was scarcely aware of anything else. He tried to speak but words would not form. Lung blood bubbled up and out of his mouth.
‘Are you alone?’
Edward heard the words but they made no sense. He stared up with pain-filled eyes.
Cruelly, Jackson kicked Edward in the side. It was not a vicious blow but shock waves joined those of the bullet wound and Edward gasped at the added pain.
‘Answer me, old man. Are you on your own?’
In that last instant before death lay with him, his mind cleared. He was unable to speak, drowning in his own blood, but finding strength, Edward knew he had to protect the young cub who would be hiding back along the track. He nodded. With his very last breath, Edward had the feeling he was flying.
Jackson stood looking at the dead man. He had told the truth. No-one that close to death would lie. Obviously a poacher, although his weapon was surprisingly good. Jackson knew that those who lived by their wits and the gun usually spent more on the tools of their trade than on themselves. This one had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dragging the body off the road and in to the bushes, Jackson made no attempt to conceal any other evidence. Night was coming and with it, the predators. Africa took care of its own. But he took the shotgun.
He retrieved his pack and set off again. Thanks to Edward’s extraordinary act of loyalty, Jackson did not bother to backtrack and check the mine. Michael’s footprints on the road just a hundred metres back remained undetected. Jackson Mpande had made his first mistake.
An hour had passed since Michael heard the shot. Muscles cramping, he moved, rising stiffly to his feet. It would be suicidal to follow the road. He crept forward through the bush and came level with the bend, now able to see along the next straight stretch of road. Empty. Still, Michael couldn’t take any chances. Keeping out of sight, he pushed on as before, using every bit of available cover. His senses listened for the slightest sound, any movement in the shadows. Michael nearly fell over Edward’s body.
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