Trackers

by Deon Meyer

  Although her attitude was annoying, the question wasn't unreasonable.

  'All the Karoo people I know are painfully honest. Honourable. They have a work ethic that says there is only one way to earn your daily bread. I never considered that Diederik could be otherwise.'

  'Is he?'

  'Apparently,' and I looked to Lourens for help.

  'He is.' Then he braked and put on his indicator light. 'We have to turn off here.' He pointed at the road sign that indicated the D579, a right turn to the Lapalala Wilderness Game Reserve.

  Flea picked up the map, unfolded it. 'Are you sure?'

  'Yip,' he said, continued to reduce speed and turned off the tar onto a broad gravel road. He shot a glance at me, and we both looked at the wing mirrors. He accelerated slowly.

  The road behind us remained dark.

  Lourens speeded up.

  Still dark.

  Flea looked up from the map. 'I still don't get this route,' she said.

  'We have to go viaVaalwater,' said Lourens. 'Then to Bela-Bela. It's not a big detour ...'

  And then he suddenly stopped speaking, as behind us headlights popped up in the mirror.

  28

  ... if you are a keen naturalist who spends a lot of time in the field, the chances of being bitten sooner or later are not insignificant (especially if you try to track down snakes).

  The Basics of Tracking: Spoor Interpretation

  'What?' asked Flea. She wasn't stupid.

  'Don't worry about the route,' said Lourens.

  'Why did you look at each other like that?'

  'There's a vehicle following us, for the past hour,' I said, because she needed to know.

  She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. Then a short, crude laugh burst from her lips. 'You're joking.'

  'See for yourself,' I said, and pointed at the mirror.

  She leaned over, saw the lights. 'You say he's been behind us for an hour?' Sceptical.

  'He turns when we turn.'

  'Big deal,' she said. 'Can I have some more coffee?' And then: 'Do you think I'm going to fall for that one? Do you think I'm stupid?'

  'No,' I said.

  That seemed to satisfy her.

  I considered the terrain. The road climbed up and down, winding between invisible hills. I suspected we were in the Waterberg. In the headlights the thorn trees grew densely up to the road's edge, there was an occasional chunky rock formation. Not ideal.

  'I want to make sure about this, Lourens. We'll wait for a long downhill. Don't use your brakes; we don't want to alert them. But slow down, use the gears to stop. Slowly, smoothly. Keep the lights on.'

  'OK.'

  Flea ignored us, sat there, sulking.

  The road made a sweeping turn, first to the left, a kilometre later it curved right, then a long straight stretch with a slight downhill slope. Lourens took his foot off the accelerator, worked down through the gears, put it in neutral. The Mercedes slowed. We watched the mirrors

  keenly. The lights appeared around the first turn, growing larger initially as they approached. Then they kept their distance.

  I looked up at the cab light, moved the switch so it would stay off when the door opened. 'Make sure you know how the road curves, and then switch off your headlights.'

  Lourens waited a bit and then turned off the lights. The night was suddenly pitch black. The only lights were the ones behind us, considerably closer now.

  'When we stop, turn off the engine and use the handbrake. But stay in your seat and keep your hand on the keys.'

  'OK.' Calm, composed. Just what we needed.

  I took the Glock out of the storage space, waited until we rolled to a halt, opened the door, leaped out, ran around to the rear of the truck, pistol in hand. Lourens turned the engine off.

  The lights behind us, now only 200 metres away, snapped off suddenly.

  A very bad sign.

  Stars, no moon. My eyes were not accustomed to the darkness, I could only recognise the immediate surroundings, the road, the tall grass, deep shadows of thorn trees across the road.

  I listened. The sounds of the truck behind me, metal cooling. Then, footsteps on the gravel.

  'Get back in the truck,' I said softly.

  She came and stood beside me. 'If the tranquilliser wears off, the rhinos will go into a frenzy.'

  I stared into the darkness trying to see them.

  'I've seen a rhino smash its sinuses to a pulp against the bars,' she said.

  I put my finger to my lips, warning her to be quiet.

  'It was dead the next day. I can't inject them in the dark. Can we get moving?'

  I knew enough. We had a problem. Someone was behind us, someone with an agenda. And they didn't want to be seen. Content just to follow.

  I turned and went back to the passenger door, where I waited for her. She didn't come straight away, wanting to make a point. Then she moved, arms folded and head down, shot me a dirty look as she got in.

  I climbed up after her and told Lourens: 'Let's go. Keep the lights off as long as you can.'

  She said: 'It's not a joke.'

  Lourens concentrated on the road, driving slowly.

  I sat and thought things through.

  They knew that we knew. They would have seen as little as I did in the dark, but their engine had not been running. They would have heard the Mercedes drive off. They would know we had to switch on our headlights sooner or later, unless we meant to drive this slowly until daybreak. If they were close enough they would be able to follow us without lights, using the truck as a direction finder until daylight.

  The question was not what they were after; there was a million rands' of rhino horn within spitting distance from me. The question was rather, what they were waiting for. One vehicle, not a large one, a sedan or bakkie. Or a minibus that could take eight or ten people. Superior numbers if we stopped. Which we had just done. And nothing had happened.

  Were they aware we were armed? Or did they just assume? Or was I mistaken entirely.

  What would I do if I meant to hijack a twenty-ton truck?

  It depended on the purpose. I doubted our pursuers wanted more than the horns. They just needed to force the truck to stop without putting themselves in too much danger, neutralise the people, cut off the booty and get away. There was only one way to do that easily.

  I turned around on the seat so I could reach my sports bag and took out the MAG-7.

  'Good grief,' said Flea.

  I clipped on my safety belt. 'Is there a safety belt for her?' I asked Lourens.

  'No, Oom.'

  I looked at her. The arrogance was gone, but I saw reproach. For the first time I noticed her left eye from close up. Another faint scar ran from the fold in her lower lid, a centimetre down her cheek, fine as a hair.

  'When I say "duck", you get down there,' and I pointed at the foot well in front of my seat. 'I will make room for you.'

  'Why?'

  I was beginning to question my patience with her, but Lourens pre-empted me. 'He's a professional bodyguard, Cornel. You should do as he says.'

  'A bodyguard?'

  'Listen,' I said. 'The chances that they want the rhino alive are extremely slim. Too much trouble, too much time to transfer them, too many tranquillisers and need for expert care. We must assume they only want the horns. That means they must force us to stop. The only sensible way is to block the road ahead. We will have to run a blockade, knock something out of the way ...'

  'No!' she said. 'The animals ...'

  'The animals are protected enough. If we have to stop, we and the animals will be in danger.'

  She considered my argument. Then she nodded, to my surprise. She took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. 'What do you want me to do?'

  'Give me a chance to think.'

  She sat motionless.

  I checked the mirror, the road behind us remained dark. I picked up the map again, so I could test my new theory against it.

 
; Lourens said they had been behind us since before Alldays. On the second long tarred road since we had set off, after about fifty kilometres of gravel road. I didn't like to make assumptions, but I had to. Assumption number one: they knew where we had loaded. There were simply too many roads in Northern Limpopo for them to have found us by chance. Which meant at least one vehicle had been behind us from the start. But once they realised we weren't going to keep to the tar, they had to reduce the following distance in order not to lose us on some obscure side road. That was why it had taken Lourens so long to spot them.

  Assumption number two was logical: they hadn't known which route we would follow. They would have guessed, and, like Flea, assumed we would take the Nl, with the R521 to Polokwane as the second option. If I were in their shoes I would let my other vehicles - three at least, or four - wait near Mokopane. Probably near one of the toll gates, a good place to attack a stationary vehicle, remove the horns quickly and disappear.

  Assumption number three: when our route deviated from expectations, they would have had to reorganise. They would have a map and by now would have plotted the straight line of our planned route - via Vaalwater, Rustenburg and Ventersdorp. Our last turn-off, twenty minutes ago, would have been the final indication.

  Assumption number four: the devil works in darkness. They would attack before daybreak. And they would have to work quickly now, before we could reach a police station.

  I measured the distances from Polokwane and Mokopane, calculated average speed and probabilities. Every time I reached the same conclusion: Vaalwater. They would have to act before Vaalwater. Within the next fifty kilometres.

  I folded the map and put it away. I put the Glock on the seat between myself and Flea, held the MAG-7 in my hands.

  'How strong is the bull bar in front?' I asked Lourens.

  'That depends ...'

  'If we had to knock a car or a bakkie out of the way?'

  'Oom, three weeks ago we hit a kudu beyond Middelburg, and that thing bent back so far it knocked out the windscreen.'

  Not what I wanted to hear. 'But the engine is under here?' and I gestured at the bulge under Flea.

  'Yes, Oom, but the radiators are in front. If something hits us badly, we're in trouble.'

  Flea drew a breath to say something, then shook her head and kept quiet.

  I thought. 'If there is no way to get through, we will have to stop. Lourens, they will try to block the road. There might be space to force our way through on the side. Don't let fences intimidate you. If the veld looks good on the other side ...' 'OK.'

  'But you will have very little time to decide.'

  He nodded, seated himself more firmly behind the steering wheel, determined.

  The mirror attracted my attention. I looked. The lights were there again, much closer.

  'They're back,' Lourens confirmed.

  'Then it's close,' I said and opened the MAG-7.

  Two hundred metres ahead, the road changed from night to day.

  29

  ... the tracks of animals fleeing indicates a disturbance, and if no signs of predators are found, further investigation may reveal human intruders.

  The Art of Tracking - Introduction: Poaching

  The headlights of four vehicles blinded us so we couldn't see anything, except the rocky cliff rising up on the left and a black drop on the right. The perfect place.

  Lourens hit the brakes, I shouted at Flea to duck, moving my legs to make room for her, wrestling with a plan of action: jump out to distract them, or stay here to protect Lourens and Flea?

  She did the one thing I wasn't expecting. Before she wriggled down between the instrument panel and the seat, she picked up the Glock. I grabbed at it, too late. Suddenly outside, to the right, a shadowy figure appeared, out of nowhere, a man with a gun, waving his arm. Lourens jerked at the wheel to avoid hitting him.

  The truck skidded on the loose gravel, and for a second I thought he would lose control.

  We hit the man, sickening thud.

  I decide to get out, create two targets. Fighting the G-force, I unclip the seat belt, shove open the door and jump in the hope that our own headlights will hide me.

  A second in the air, my feet hit the ground hard and I use the momentum, roll through the long grass beside the road, stones and grass tufts, the MAG tight against my side, rolling, shock of barbed wire ripping across my back, deep and painful. On my feet, gasping for breath, as the brake lights of the Mercedes halt in a cloud of dust. Ten metres away from me two figures rise from the grass, assault rifles in their arms, charging at the truck. 'Kill the lights,' they yell, 'kill the lights!' One kneels beside the cab, aims the rifle at the door, the other reaches up, pulls it open, jumps down again, crouching next to his partner. 'Kill the lights,' a thunderous order, phantom shapes against the lights and the swirling dust.

  Lourens turns off the lights.

  'Now get out.'

  The dust drifted lazily away. I saw they were black, the weapons AK-47s. In front of the Mercedes another three appeared, rifles to their shoulders, sights aimed at the windscreen.

  Flea and the Glock lay there in wait, I hoped she was as smart as I thought.

  'Hold up your hands,' someone shouted from the other side of the truck. 'Now, get down.'

  Lourens got out.

  'On the ground.'

  At first I saw only his feet, showing under the truck, then he sank down on his knees.

  'Lie down.'

  He lay down in the dust, hands on his head.

  'You in there,' called one of the men kneeling on this side. 'Get out.'

  I raised myself slowly, knelt in the grass, lifted the MAG, thumbed off the safety catch, aimed at the AK closest to me, praying she would obey.

  'I said get out!' he shouted.

  On the back of the truck the rhinos shifted: stamping, a disturbed snort. The attackers' feet shuffled on the gravel, AKs were cocked. Flea's hands were visible at the window, then her head, fear on her face.

  A cold barrel touched the back of my neck. A calm voice behind me, so close: 'Put down the gun.'

  I lowered the MAG.

  Our pursuers. They must have seen me bail out.

  I put the shotgun down carefully, still on my knees. He moved around me, into my field of vision. A big black man, massive silver revolver held with both hands, arms straight, aiming between my eyes.

  Then he smiled. 'Mr Stuntman.'

  He lunges forward suddenly, kicks me. I fend with my arms, deflecting, so he gets me low, in the belly. I fall over backwards, roll away, but he keeps coming, kicks me again, in the back. I change direction, roll towards him, wait for the next kick, grab his boot and pull with all my strength. Both feet leave the ground, he falls on his back, hard, bellows: 'Hit!' I am on him, my knee sinks into his belly, his mouth wide, croaking for air. My left hand grabs his revolver arm, I bring my right elbow down on his face, smash hisnose, feel the blood spatter over me. His revolver hand opens, I grab the gun, shove it to his temple, cock the hammer, throw all my weight on him.

  Amasimba,' he hisses and touches his nose with both hands. Blood on his mouth. 'You are a fucking fool!

  A gun against the back of my head, a voice behind: 'You want me to kill him, Inkunzi?'

  The big man pushes the revolver away from his temple with an impatient gesture. 'Not yet. If he's stupid, shoot him in the leg!

  'Nazo-ke, Inkunzi!'

  'Get off me,' Inkunzi says.

  I turn my head. There are two of them behind me, AKs at the ready. I stand up. Slowly. Inkunzi's revolver is a Smith & Wesson, the giant Model 500, two kilograms of stainless steel. I drop it in the grass. Inkunzi swears in some African language, bends and picks it up, swings it at my head. It's too heavy for surprise. I duck with ease, grab his arm, pull him off balance. An AK butt hits me in the back. I fall forwards. Instantly, Inkunzi kicks me in the ribs, dull thud, sudden pain. The other two kick me from behind, running shoes, less effective. I kick back, connect with one's kn
ee, try to get up, my only chance. Inkunzi grabs my collar, jerks. I fall back again. Another one joins them, four now. Kicks rain down on me, I roll onto my back, must protect my spine, pull my knees up to my chest, arms over my head. I jerk back and forth, pain everywhere, a dull thud to my head, another, I move my balled fists to protect my skull, I smile faintly, slip away to a safe place in my head, seeing the shoe sole on the way to my face too late.

  Buzzing in my head, smell of dust, faraway sounds, shadows leaping in the dancing light, my body a sea of pain.

  One swollen eye. Struggle to focus.

  Figures.

  They slowly took shape.

  I was lying on my side in front of the Mercedes, one arm under me, awkward. They must have dragged me here.

  To the left of me, Flea knelt with her hands behind her head. Lourens on his knees beside her, Inkunzi's revolver to the back of his head. Between us our belongings were strewn across the road, my sports bag, Flea's medical case, coffee flasks, mugs, cushions, clothing, tools.

  Beside me lay the body of the man we had knocked down. As still as death.

  Time seemed to stop, no one moved.

  Sounds gradually penetrated. At the truck, metal on metal, someone hammering. Men's voices talking.

  Flea sobbed.

  I had no idea how long I had lain here.

  Two men walked past me. A strong smell of diesel. 'Nothing in the tanks,' said one.

  'It's not in the lorry,' said the other.

  Inkunzi swore. 'Where is it?' he asked Flea.

  'I don't know.' Drained.

  I lifted my head slowly. A rifle butt hit me in the back. 'This one is awake.'

  'Good,' said Inkunzi, and looked at me. 'I will shoot this boy if you don't tell me.'

  'Tell you what?' but my voice would not work. I tried again. A hoarse rasp sent flames down my ribcage.

  'You know what we want. Where is it?'

  'What is he talking about?' Desperate fear in Flea's voice.

  'You know,' said Inkunzi.

  'I don't,' she implored him.

  'Then I will shoot him,' and he cocked the revolver.