Trackers

by Deon Meyer

  'When do you have to inject them again?'

  She checked her watch. 'In about half an hour.'

  'We can stop in Hertzogville. I have to get diesel,' said Lourens.

  Something else that bothered me. 'Why hasn't Diederik phoned yet?'

  'Nicola is keeping him informed, Oom.'

  'You have millions rands' worth of rhinos on a truck, with another million rands' worth of rhino horn, you hire a bodyguard because you are quite concerned. But you get your progress report second hand?'

  'Ay,' said Lourens half-heartedly. 'That Oom Diederik ...' Reluctant to lay any blame on Brand.

  While Flea was injecting the animals, I inspected the cages. There were no hiding places. The frame and bars were solid steel, the floor was a single layer of wooden planks with no space underneath.

  I rolled under the truck. There were many options, but Inkunzi's henchmen would have searched diligently. I had the advantage of daylight, but found nothing.

  What could be so valuable that it warranted the effort of orchestrating a midnight hijacking with five vehicles and twelve men? What would you bring from the north of Zimbabwe, where there was nothing, a land stripped bare?

  Before we got back in, Flea quizzed me with raised eyebrows. I shook my head, as I had no answers.

  We drove. She got a conversation going again, as though she considered it her responsibility. I stared at the landscape drifting past, trying to make sense of it all. The key was the transfer on the Swanepoel's farm. Was there someone who was not involved, who didn't help to push or pull to move the cages across?

  No.

  Wickus had been shouting orders from the ground, Flea had been standing on the roof of the Mercedes. Swannie on the Bedford, with half the labourers, while Lourens and myself and the remainder of the men had been pulling on the ropes to shift the rhinos centimetre by centimetre.

  Everyone busy, groaning, sweating, focused. The more clearly I recalled the scene, the more certain I became - there had been no chance to transfer anything else, to hide it, attach it.

  My cellphone beeped in my pocket. I took it out. An SMS. From Emma. SEE YOU TONIGHT ON D'S FARM. MISSING YOU SO MUCH XXX.

  Relief flooded over me, too late I realised Flea was also staring at the little screen.

  She looked at me and her crooked smile said she had gained new insight.

  At a quarter to eleven we crossed the N8 between Kimberley and Bloemfontein. At eleven Lourens pointed out the signboard to Magersfontein.

  'Wasn't that a book?' Flea asked.

  'It was a battlefield, in the Boer War,' he said. 'My great-grandfather was there. Paardeberg is also around here. And Modder River.'

  'Did we win?'

  'At Magersfontein and Modder River we gave a superior British force a good hiding. But Paardeberg ... that's a sad story.'

  'Tell me,' said Flea.

  At two minutes past eleven, in the little town of Jacobsdal, something drew my attention away from Lourens's history lesson.

  I kept my voice even. 'Could you stop here right now, please?'

  'Oom?' he said.

  'I just want to say hello to some old friends.' On the main street, in a tidy row in front of a small hotel, stood four Harley Davidsons.

  'OK.' He started to brake.

  Flea drew a breath to say something.

  'I'll be quick,' I countered.

  32

  Snakes prefer to flee, and only molestation will cause attack.

  The Art of Tracking: Dangerous animals

  Before I went in I made sure. The number plate on the motorbike closest to the door read NV ME.

  I found them in the little bar, all four on high stools, beer in hand, laughing about something. Hu-hu-hu. I went up to Steel Grey and put my hand on his shoulder.

  'Are you sober?' I asked.

  He looked around irritably, then scowled at my swollen eye, the bruises, trying hard to place me.

  'Who mugged you?' he asked. All four were staring at me now.

  'Are you sober? I can't bliksem you if you're drunk.'

  'Loxton,' said Ratface. 'Yesterday ...'

  He could remember. They were sober enough. I pulled Steel Grey by the tassels on his leather jacket, so that he had to get down off his stool. The tassels tore off. 'Hey!' he said and swung at me. An amateur.

  I dodged the blow. 'You called Emma le Roux a scrawny bitch,' I said.

  'Leave him alone,' said the Big Guy, coming at me.

  I hit Steel Grey. There was a lot in that blow. My dilemma at Emma's declaration of love, the stomach-turning flight, hours in the Musina sun, a night of humiliation, pain all over my body, the frustration of unanswered questions.

  He dropped. Like a stone.

  I turned to the Big Guy. 'Come on,' I said.

  At sixteen minutes past eleven I climbed back into the cab of the Mercedes, experiencing a sense of release, a weight unburdened, a brief taste of paradise.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  Lourens spotted the blood on my hand and put two and two together. 'Those guys from yesterday?'

  'How did you know?'

  'Nicola told me over the phone yesterday, before lunchtime already He heard about it from Oom Diederik.' No secrets in the Bo-Karoo.

  I just shook my head.

  'I thought they were your friends,' said Flea.

  'I think the friendship is over.'

  The expression on Lourens's face gradually changed, the laughter crept over him, until he threw back his head, and the hilarity infected Flea, until they were both in gales of laughter. I wanted to smile, even though my sore face protested, because it was then I knew they would get over last night.

  Flea insisted that Lourens tell her the whole Harley story, since I refused. It was an interesting experience to hear it from the outlet end of the Loxton pipeline. Four bikers had become six. The story had expanded to include the phrases 'ugly customers' and 'Hell's Angels' - Steel Grey would be flattered by the latter. They had insulted Tannie Wilna and Emma 'dreadfully'. Diederik Brand had stopped my fist in the nick of time, or else, by all accounts, there would have been 'mayhem'.

  Lemmer, hero of Loxton.

  'They're not Hell's Angels,' I said, when he was done.

  'What are they?' Flea asked.

  'Rich Afrikaners.'

  'What have you got against rich Afrikaners?' Flea asked indignantly.

  I shook my head. Unwilling.

  'Come on,' she prodded. 'Are you jealous?'

  'I'm sure that's part of it.'

  'And the other part?'

  I sighed, not in the mood for this.

  'Come on.'

  'Ivory tower whingers.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'It means they sit around eating expensive, impress-the-neighbours Woollies' food in their huge, luxurious houses behind high walls and alarm systems, in front of their Hi-Def flat screen TVs, with a Mercedes ML, two quad bikes, a Harley, and a speedboat squeezed into their triple garages, and they bitch about how bad things are in this country ...'

  'But things are bad.'

  'For them? Rubbish. The point is, they do nothing about it. They don't vote, they don't get involved, they say stuff like "I can't make a difference any more", like vultures, they sit and wait for the government to make a mistake, and then they say, see, I told you so. They are racist, but too cowardly to show it openly. They moan about crime, but not one of them ever thought of starting a neighbourhood watch or becoming a police reservist. They have no culture apart from spending money and drinking. They are scared. Of everything. And these are people ...Their forefathers at Magersfontein and Paardeberg would spin in their graves ...'

  She was quiet for a long time before she said: 'They're not all like that.'

  'That's true,' I said, because Emma was the exception.

  Flea nodded, seeming satisfied.

  Their conversation took on a natural flow, a rhythm. I became the fifth wheel to the wagon, a spectator to the burgeoning friendship be
tween them. She was a couple of years older than Lourens, wrestling with a few demons, perhaps, but her arrogance had gone. Maybe because she now knew who and what he was. The shared trauma would also play a part, create a foundation.

  So I withdrew, let them have room, prepared myself for meeting Diederik Brand again. Emma would be there. I would have to hold back.

  We stopped twice more. At Britstown, for pies and cool drinks, at Victoria West, to sedate the rhinos one last time. Flea was worried. 'They are tired and thirsty. The bull should be OK, but the cow ...'

  We drove through Loxton after six, the pear blossoms were a white snowstorm along the streets. Lourens phoned Nicola to give a progress report, then took the shortest route through Slangfontein and the Sak River Poort. At the next junction we turned left one final time to Skuinskop, Diederik Brand's farm in the Nuweveld Mountains, alongside the Karoo National Park.

  33

  In order to recognise a specific sign, a tracker often has a preconceived image of what a typical sign looks like.

  Principles of Tracking: Recognition of signs

  They were waiting for us in front of the big shed - Diederik Brand, his wife Marika, Emma, and a horde of labourers. Diederik only had eyes for the rhino, he began opening the rear doors straight away. Emma came to my door full of happiness. That disappeared when she saw my face. 'What happened?'

  'We had a bit of trouble,' I said.

  'A bit?'

  I looked in Diederik's direction and said: 'I will tell you later.'

  'Are you ...?'

  'Nothing serious.'

  She hesitated a moment before embracing me. 'Thank God,' she said. 'Thank God.'

  'Holy shit,' said Brand from the back. 'Where's Cornel? These animals are sick ...'

  'It's Necrolytic Dermatitis,' said Flea and jumped down. 'We must get them offloaded and relaxed as soon as possible.'

  Only then did he come around the truck. 'OK. Then,' said Brand, 'the camp is just around the back here ...' He saw my damage. 'Lemmer! What happened?'

  'Let's offload, then we'll talk,' I said.

  At the tone of my voice, Emma stiffened against me.

  His 'workroom' was a messy place. Big desk with a PC on top, papers in untidy heaps. Framed photographs on the walls of ancestors, stud rams, hunting parties, and his pretty blonde wife Marika as the Wool

  Queen in her young days. One dark wood bookshelf with decorative oil lamps, files, farming and investment guides and a big collection of old Landbou Weekblad and Farmer's Weekly magazines. In the corner was a golf bag of worn leather, the heads of antique golf clubs protruding. He sat on the edge of the desk, legs straight, arms folded like someone who had something to hide. I sat on the end of the couch. It was covered with Nguni cow hide, brown with white speckles.

  'You lied to me, Diederik,' I said.

  'No! I can't understand this whole thing,' he said, because he had extracted the story bit by bit from Lourens during the offloading, casting worried eyes in my direction.

  'You're lying.'

  'Lemmer, I swear.' That was always the first thing they said.

  'Diederik, I'm not in the mood for games. I know all your stories. You are a cheat and a liar. You haven't paid my account yet, so you are not a client. Now you have a choice. You can talk, or you can bleed.'

  'Lemmer, buddy, looks like this is one big misunderstanding.' Hands raised in innocence, charm turned up to the maximum. 'I haven't got around to the payment yet, I'll do it right now. And that hijacking ...'

  I sighed and stood up.

  '... if they weren't after the horns ...' said Diederik. 'What on earth, I mean ... it... I don't understand it...'

  I walked over to the golf bag and selected a big wood, because my knuckles hurt after the Harley Knights.

  'Do you think this is a game, Diederik? Like the time you sold the Toyota truck?'

  'What Toyota? There are so many stories, Lemmer, people exaggerate.'

  Which was partly true. I pulled the club back and swung at him, aiming for his ribs. For a big man he was remarkably quick on his feet. I missed. 'Lemmer, please,' as he dashed for the door. I grabbed him by the shirt, and dragged him back. I went to the door, locked it and put the key in my pocket.

  'Please, buddy ...' His eyes were wide, charm on the wane.

  'Did Lourens tell you how they held a revolver to his head? After they blew the head off the one we ran down with the truck?'

  'No ..

  'Because he's far too decent, Diederik. He should have told you what it feels like to hear the shot and believe you are dying. The sound you make, the fear, the humiliation when they deliberately miss. Did he tell you how Cornel begged and cried?'

  'Christ, Lemmer, I didn't know ...'

  'Damage has been done. On your account. And now you are going to pay.'

  'Lemmer, I swear ...'

  I hit him quickly, struck him on the lower ribs.

  'Lemmer!' A shriek. 'Jesus, please ...'

  I hit him again. He defended with his hands, the club clipped his forearm.

  'Please!' Bellowing, pleading.

  'Pappa?' his wife's voice through the locked door.

  I raised the club again. 'Tell her everything is all right,' I said softly.

  'Everything's OK.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yes, dead sure.' He was breathing fast, his eyes flickering between me and the door.

  Silence. Then footsteps on the wooden floor. She believed him.

  'Why did you want me to go along?'

  He held his hands defensively in front of him. 'You won't believe me ...'

  I lifted the club. 'Try me.'

  He retreated up to the edge of the desk. 'Lemmer, I swear to you, it was just about the horns,' he spoke fast, desperately. 'The poachers, things are getting out of hand. And these ones come from Zim, you know how things are there, the police, everyone is involved with the smuggling, I swear, I swear, I only had Lourens and Cornel's safety . . .'

  'You're right. I don't believe you. When did you arrange with Lotter to come?'

  'Friday night, I phoned him ...'

  'But you wait till Saturday morning at eleven before you ask me?'

  'I... the thing is, I thought of going along myself at first. But then Marika suggested you, rather get a professional, and so I phoned around, but no one had your number, you're not in the book, and I only got away from here at nine on Saturday, what with all the arrangements, and I went to your house, but there was no one there, and then I found you in the Red Pomegranate ...'

  'And you gave me a MAG-7, just in case?'

  'Lemmer, I know how it looks ...'

  'Where did you get the shotgun?'

  'It's a long story ...'

  I hit him again, on the shoulder. He made a desperate squeak and fled around the desk, his eyes searching for a place to hide under it. 'What do you want?' he asked in despair.

  'The truth, Diederik. Because you are lying.'

  'About what?'

  I lifted the club again and walked after him.

  'OK.' Pleading, retreating all around the desk, as I followed him.

  'OK, what?' still on the merry-go-round, a game for children.

  'I'll tell you, just put the fucking golf club down.'

  I stopped and lowered the stick.

  He blew out a long and noisy breath, grinned. 'Look at us ...'

  It was a circus, but I wasn't going to give him any get-out. 'Spit it out, Diederik.'

  He sat down in the lovely old chair, worn out. 'I lied about the permit.'

  'The permit?'

  'It's forged.'

  'The import permit?'

  'Yes. And the letter from Nature Conservation. I ... Where's the harm, Lemmer? Nicola ... He has a rule, he won't transport game unless the permits are correct. There was no way I could get a permit for the rhino.'

  'Who forged the documents?'

  'I did. Myself.'

  'To convince Nicola?'

  'Yes. And if you we
re stopped ...'

  'You never did talk to the government people.'

  'No.'

  'It was smuggling.'

  'Yes.' 'Are the animals stolen?'

  'No! I swear, Ehrlichmann heard I was looking for rhino, he phoned me, said they were outside the game reserve, belonged to nobody, chance of their survival was nil, just a question of time, Lemmer, it was an emergency, a rescue mission, I swear to you. But I had to be careful, I... there were a lot of people involved in capturing the animals, loading them. Any one of them could have decided to take the horns ... That's why I got you, because you never know, this is Africa ...'

  'What else was on that lorry? What did Ehrlichmann send along, Diederik?'

  'I don't know!' he pleaded.

  'Pappa?' Marika called, back at the door, deeply worried. She rattled the door handle.

  'Everything is fine,' he answered.

  'Open the door.'

  'Marika, everything is fine.'

  'Then open the door!'

  I looked at him, the prince of liars who had pushed the 'permit' at me in my house with so much slick dishonesty. He was still lying. I took the key out of my pocket and tossed it at him. He missed the catch, bent down to pick it up, and then went over to unlock the door.

  'What's going on?' Marika asked, looking at me reproachfully.

  'Just a misunderstanding,' said Diederik. 'We're coming now.'

  She was reluctant to leave, turning away slowly and disappearing down the passage.

  Diederik and I stared at each other. 'Lemmer, on my word of honour, I don't know what they were looking for. I am terribly sorry about what happened, but I am innocent, on my word of honour.'

  'The question is whether you have any honour left,' I said. 'You will pay Jeanette Louw now. Before you leave this room.'

  'Of course.'

  And I walked out to go and fetch Emma.

  34

  ...a tracker often has a preconceived image of what a typical sign looks like. Their mind will be prejudiced to see what they want to see, and in order to avoid making such errors they must be careful not to reach decisions too soon.