Trackers

by Deon Meyer

  The road was quiet. Deserted. Where was Lourens le Riche?

  The whole thing had happened too fast, too uncoordinated. I should have got le Riche's cellphone number. Diederik Brand's too. There were questions I wanted to ask. Such as, why Brand approached me so late, only hours before the rhino were to be loaded? When had he decided to hire me?

  I spotted a crossroad ahead. I would wait there.

  The only shelter from the excruciating sun was four forlorn, almost leafless trees. I put my bag down and searched for a little bit of shade, leaned against a rough trunk. My shirt was stuck to my back, sweat stung my eyes. I had no hat.

  I checked my watch. A quarter to three.

  I wiped a sleeve over my forehead. Then I swore fiercely, and at length.

  24

  Most animals prefer to remain hidden when feeding, and may take their food to a special feeding place where they can be safe while feeding.

  The Basics of Tracking: Classification of signs

  At a quarter to four I was still sitting on the ground, only the thin tree trunk between me and the pitiless sun. My cellphone rang. I got to my feet and took it out of my trouser pocket, hoping it was Diederik Brand. There was a lot I had to say to him.

  It was Oom Joe van Wyk. Of Loxton. 'Lemmer, ou maat, I hear Diederik has got you into something.'

  'Yes, Oom,' addressing him in the Karoo vernacular.

  'Did he pay you up front?'

  'I don't know, Oom Joe, he's working through my employer.'

  'Oh. No, that's all right then. And what must you do for him?'

  'I'm not at liberty to say.'

  'Ay, that Diederik,' he laughed his happy laugh. 'Well then, sterkte, Lemmer, ou maat,' he wished me well as his 'old friend'. 'Tante Anna sends her regards.'

  At ten to four my phone rang again. Oom Ben Bruwer, the builder in Loxton, the man who I had consulted about my rotting roof. 'So, you're working for Diederik Brand.' A reproach.

  'Only for a day or two, Oom.'

  He chewed over the information. 'Nonetheless, if I were you I would ask for a deposit. Fifty per cent up front.'

  'He's negotiating with my boss, Oom Ben.'

  'Nonetheless, I would ask for fifty per cent up front. Have a good day.' And he was gone.

  Loxton was waking from its afternoon nap. News was spreading like a virus.

  At half past five the eccentric Antjie Barnard called, seventy years old, a retired international cellist who smoked and drank as if she were twenty. 'Emma is sitting with me here on my veranda, we're drinking gin and tonics and missing you,' she said in her ever-sensual voice.

  And here I stood sweating in the Limpopo sun, all my patience exhausted, waiting. I swallowed that thought. 'I miss you both too.'

  'She says you are working for Diederik, but she's very secretive.'

  'That's my Emma. Always an enigma.'

  Antjie giggled. That meant she was on her third gin. 'You know how you deal with Diederik?'

  'Take your money up front?'

  'Aah, Joe has phoned you already.'

  'And Oom Ben.'

  'The town is concerned about you.'

  'I appreciate that.'

  'Do you want to talk to Emma?' So that Antjie could listen and pick up clues to what I was doing for Diederik.

  This was not the right time to speak to Emma.

  'I'm a little busy, Antjie, tell Emma I'll call her later.'

  At ten to five a lorry drove up the tar road. The logo of Nicola's Wildlife Services on the door of the white cab, and a massive bull bar in front. I walked to the edge of the road and waved my arms. If he drove past I was going to take the shotgun and shoot out a tyre.

  He stopped.

  As I opened the door, swung the bag up and climbed in, Lourens le Riche said: 'I thought Oom would be at the airfield?'

  I said nothing. Slammed the door harder than necessary.

  'I'm Lourens, Oom,' he put out his hand. 'Have you been waiting long, Oom?'

  The le Riche family were a Loxton legend.

  My knowledge was limited, from bits of stories told here and there. They farmed out on the Pampoenpoort Road, merino sheep on 6,000 hectares, no labourers on the farm. The family did everything themselves - father, mother, two sons and a daughter. Like their parents, the children were sinewy and tough.

  Lourens, the oldest, was a final-year agricultural student at Stellenbosch. He paid for his own studies, taking every possible opportunity to earn a few rand. Like this one. I wondered if he had got his money up front. But I didn't ask because I was sticky with sweat, hot and angry.

  'Oom Diederik said you would be here around five o'clock,' he explained his time of arrival as he pulled away. 'So I took a nap, because we're going to pull an all-nighter.' His face was angular: high forehead, a determined chin, easy smile. 'Did you have a good flight, Oom?'

  It was the innocence in his voice that stopped me from taking out my frustration on him. I felt the refreshing air conditioning, angled the vent in the instrument panel towards me, turned the knob of the fan up and said, 'No, not really. And you don't have to call me Oom.'

  'OK, Oom.'

  I shifted the sports bag into the space behind the seats, put on my seat belt and settled into the seat.

  'Diederik was a bit vague about our schedule.'

  'We are going to get something to eat in town now, Oom, because we are loading tonight after dark. Round about eight. And then we are on our way.'

  As the Mercedes diesel growled up the main street of Musina, Lourens le Riche said: 'You must be lekker hungry, Oom, shall we go and get a steak?'

  To my relief, Lourens was not a chronic talker.

  We parked in Grenfell Street. He took two large coffee flasks from behind his seat and locked up the lorry carefully. He was wearing the young Karoo farmer's uniform: blue jeans, khaki shirt with blue shoulder inserts, co-op boots. We walked in silence to the Buffalo Ridge Spur Steak Ranch on the corner. The restaurant was quiet in the late afternoon, the air conditioning mercifully cool.

  Lourens ordered a T-bone and Coke, and asked them to fill his flasks with black, bitter coffee. I found my stomach had recovered from the RV-7 experience and asked for a rump steak and a red Grapetizer. When the cool drinks arrived, Lourens asked, 'Which famous people have you looked after?' more from courtesy than curiosity.

  'We sign a confidentiality clause ...' It was my standard answer, but in Loxton it was interpreted as evasive confirmation that I usually went around with American movie and pop stars. The truth was that I tried to avoid the famous as clients. Too much monkey business. So I added: 'I usually work with foreign businessmen.'

  'Oh,' he said, vaguely disappointed.

  As we waited for our food, he sat and stared through the window at the street outside. Stall traders were packing up, hundreds of pedestrians hurried on their way somewhere. A constant stream of minibus taxis squeezed past with their roof racks piled high, many of them from Zimbabwe. People in transit. A border town.

  'This is another world here,' he said pensively.

  'It is,' I said.

  That was the sum total of our conversation.

  The lorry was a Mercedes 1528, a six-cylinder diesel with no seven in sight. No jackpot then.

  On the back there was a closed steel structure as high as the cab and painted grey. It had a variety of access panels and wide rear doors. Near the top three slot openings ran the length of the body. There were double wheels behind and single wheels in front.

  Inside it was as luxurious as a car. The instrument panel was of black synthetic leather and grey plastic. There was a shelf for two mugs or tins on top, a CD player in the middle. Between the two seats was a half-metre hump at seat height over the engine cowling. Lourens's cellphone and charger lay on it, with a few CDs. I recognised Metallica and Judas Priest, the rest I had never heard of: Ihsahn, Enslaved, Arsis.

  The diagram on the gear lever showed a grid of eight gears.

  We drove out on the tarred R572 wit
h the setting sun directly in our eyes. Lourens le Riche was a competent driver. His eyes rotated between the road, the mirrors, the instruments. He drove smoothly, evenly, alert.

  I took the Glock out of my bag and looked for a place to hide it, within easy reach.

  Lourens looked at the weapon, but said nothing, until I began experimenting with the gap between my seat and the engine hump.

  'Oom, put it up there.' He pointed at the panels above the windscreen. There were a variety of storage spaces. Right in front of me was an open hollow with enough of a lip to hold the weapon if we braked sharply. Good choice.

  'Thanks.'

  'What is it, Oom?'

  'Glock 37.'

  He just nodded.

  I took out the MAG-7.

  'Jissie,' said Lourens.

  'It was Diederik's idea,' I said, self-consciously.

  Lourens laughed. 'Ay, that Oom Diederik,' and shook his head.

  'Why does everyone say "Ay, that Diederik"?'

  'Oom, he's a character.'

  'A character?'

  'An old rascal.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Don't you know the stories, Oom?'

  'No.'

  He smiled in anticipation. I had seen the same expression before on Antjie and Oom Joe's faces, the pleasure that preceded the telling of a good story. Stories were the social currency of the Karoo. Everyone had one. Heartbreak, happiness, triumph and disaster, but it was a story that defined, characterised, gave insight. So different from the stories of city people, now on Facebook and Twitter, dollied up so that everyone looked good, fake and crooked, smokescreens and masks.

  'Oom Diederik has many sides. The nature conservation, for instance. He does so much, I don't know of anyone who loves the Karoo more ... He's very clever too,' said Lourens le Riche. And then reverently: 'As sharp as a needle ...'

  25

  The easiest way to learn how to track is to have an experienced tracker teach you.

  The Basics of Tracking: Learning to track

  He told me the story of the sixteen-ton Toyota Hino double-decker sheep lorry that Diederik Brand had advertised for sale in the Farmer's Weekly for R400,000.

  'Three blokes phoned him, and Oom Diederik said the first man to pay in cash could come and collect the truck. All three of them deposited the money. Oom Diederik told each of them they could come and collect it. The first bloke arrived and he took the lorry. When the other two arrived on the farm, Oom Diederik said, "I'm terribly sorry, but you are too late". They were angry and Oom Diederik said, "man, it's only business, come, you've driven a long way, sleep here tonight and enjoy Karoo hospitality on the house". He organised a feast, and poured a few brandies and told them stories and jokes the whole evening, and when they were properly drunk he said, "don't worry, tomorrow I'll give you each a cheque for the full amount", and they left the best of buddies. A week later the guys phoned and said the cheques had bounced, where was their money? Oom Diederik said the bank must have made a mistake, he would give the bank manager hell, he would send a new cheque immediately. A week later, same story. So it went on for a month or two, until the men realised they were being taken for a ride, then it was lawyers' letters and threats. But Oom Diederik knows all the tricks, he said his statements showed the payment had gone through, or he asked for proof of the sale contract, of course there was none, because he does everything verbally. Or he wouldn't answer his phone, he strung them along and earned interest on the R800,000 for nearly a year, until it ended up in court. Then on the steps in front of the court, he said, "OK, you can get your money, without the interest, but then you drop all the charges". The men were so thankful, they said all right.'

  I began to understand why everyone told me to ask for money up front.

  'Clever,' said Lourens le Riche.

  Before he could tell me more, his cellphone rang. It was Nicola wanting to know where we were.

  'We will be at the loading point in half an hour,' said Lourens.

  When he had finished talking I asked him: 'What is this thing's top speed?'

  'Depends how heavy the load is, Oom. With game on we drive slowly, between eighty and ninety.'

  Racing away from trouble was not going to be an option.

  'What does a rhino weigh?'

  'I don't know, Oom.'

  'How much can we carry?'

  'About twenty tons, Oom. But this load won't come near that. In total, I estimate we won't load more than five tons tonight.'

  My cellphone beeped. It was an SMS from Jeanette Louw, the standard query this time of the day: 'ALL OK?'

  It wouldn't help to saddle her with my frustrations. I replied: 'ALL OK'.

  I was expecting a clandestine smuggling rendezvous in the dark, with people sneaking about and urgent whispering somewhere in the thick bush. What we got was the brightly lit, busy yard of an irrigation farm on the banks of the Limpopo River.

  A dozen black labourers sat and talked loudly on the concrete edge of a long steel shed, waiting. On the tailgate of a white Land Cruiser sat two white men in khaki shorts, khaki-and-green shirts, long socks, short work boots. As we drove into the yard, they jumped off. One was young, early twenties, the other well into his forties.

  Lourens stopped. We climbed out. The white men approached. 'Lourens?' asked the older, and stretched out his hand.

  'That's me, Oom.'

  'Wickus Swanepoel,' he pronounced the 'W' as a 'V', 'and this is my son, Swannie.'

  'And this is Oom Lemmer ...'

  We shook hands. They were two big men with five-o'clock-shadows, farmers' tans, identical snub noses, and bushy eyebrows. Pa Wickus's leather belt was slung low to accommodate a beer belly.

  'Their truck is waiting at the border, over there,' he said, and pointed north. 'Are you ready?'

  'Yes, we're ready, Oom.'

  Wickus looked at his son. 'Tell them they can come. Make sure they have deflated the tyres. And that they know about the poles.'

  Swannie took a cellphone out of his shorts pocket and phoned. His father said, 'We thought it better to wait for dark before they came across. Just in case.'

  Just in case, I thought. Diederik's words.

  The son was talking on the cellphone: 'Cornel, you can come across, they are here. Have you let air out of your tyres?'

  'Turn your truck around so long,' Wickus said to Lourens. 'And open the back doors.'

  'Right, Oom,' Lourens said. 'How long will it take?'

  'They are just here, across the river, in the orchards on the Zim side. If they don't get stuck in the bloody sand they will be here now-now.'

  Lourens got into the Mercedes.

  'They're coming, Pa,' said Swannie, the son.

  'Did you tell them to look out for the marker poles?'

  'No, Pa. But they say they can see our lights.'

  'No, oh Koot, that's just like a woman, the lights won't help fuck all if they don't watch the markers.'

  'Don't worry, Pa.'

  Lourens turned the Mercedes around so the nose pointed back in the direction we had come. Wickus Swanepoel walked over to where the labourers sat talking. He gave orders in their language. They stood up and came closer. Wickus gave more orders and pointed at some thick metal bars that lay in the doorway of the shed. Half of the labourers went over and got them.

  Lourens switched off the Mercedes, jumped down and slid open the bolts of the rearmost grey steel doors.

  'I hear they have a Bedford, might be a little lower than your load bed, if so we will get out the pulleys,' said Wickus.

  'I hear them, Pa,' said Swannie.

  The rumble of a diesel engine could be heard out of the darkness, at high revs.

  'Oh hell,' said Wickus, 'I hope the bugger knows how to drive in sand.'

  Lourens came closer. We stood four in a row, eyes to the north in the direction of the noise. 'Sand is loose this time of year,' said Wickus. 'Soft. Powder. River is dry. If they haven't let down the tyres they will get stuck. Then we're stu
ffed.'

  'Don't worry, Pa.'

  'Someone has to fokken worry.'

  'Listen, they're through.'

  The engine's revs were lower now, more controlled.

  'So why doesn't he put his lights on?'

  'Don't worry, Pa.'

  'Stop saying that to me.'

  'But we don't have to worry, Pa. We have all the permits this side.'

  'Those people still have to bugger off back to Zim tonight, and they don't have papers.'

  Then we saw the lorry, an old Bedford, appear out of the dark at the furthest extent of the lighted circle.

  'Thank God,' said Wickus Swanepoel. 'It's an old RL.'

  'Pa?'

  'Was about the only Bedford with four-wheel drive,' his father said, as the lorry stopped in front of us. It looked like an old military vehicle, the green paint bleached and worn, but there was nothing wrong with the engine. A black driver sat behind the wheel, yellow vest, muscular arms, cigarette in mouth.

  The passenger door opened. A woman jumped down lightly. She ignored us, moved straight to the back of the vehicle, which was covered by a dirty grey tarpaulin. She began untying ropes.

  'Hell's bells!' said Pa Wickus, fervent, but under his breath. Because at first sight she was spectacular. Shoulders, arms and legs had the muscular definition of an athlete. Pitch black hair pulled back in a careless ponytail, the neck long and elegant, a fine sheen of perspiration on the honey skin, her face dominated by strong, high cheekbones. Lara Croft of the Limpopo, in boots, tight khaki shorts, and a sleeveless white T-shirt that clearly displayed her generous breasts.

  'Cornel?' asked Swannie, the son. He sounded overjoyed to connect the voice on the telephone with this apparition.

  She looked at him. 'Come and help,' she ordered.

  Swannie didn't move at once. 'Flea?' he asked astonished. 'Flea van Jaarsveld?'

  She bristled. 'I don't know you.'

  'We were in primary school together,' said Swannie, with a tone of deep gratitude that he had a connection to her. 'Jissie, Flea, you've changed.'