by Deon Meyer
I tried Ehrlichmann's satellite phone again. Still engaged. Had Diederik written down the correct number?
Why?
At ten to three Emma called to say she had arrived safely back at her house. 'How are you feeling?' she asked.
'My whole body misses your healing hands.'
'Your whole body?'
'Head to toes.'
'Unfortunately, Dr Emma's healing hands are only available in Cape Town this week, at a special price for Karoo boys.'
'This Karoo boy has to go to Zimbabwe first.'
'Lemmer.' Suddenly serious. 'You will be careful.'
'I will.'
Which was close enough to the truth.
'His name is Julius Nhlakanipho Shabangu,' Jeanette Louw said over the phone. 'His nickname is "Inkunzi". That means "bull" in Zulu. He comes from Esikhawini, a township near Empangeni in KwaZuluNatal, but he lives in Sandton now. Filthy rich, divorced, a playboy with the Jo'burg girls, a criminal record as long as Jolene's legs ...'
'An interesting comparison,' I said. Jolene Freylinck was Body Armour's efficient, sexy receptionist.
'You know what I mean, Lemmer. Listen: Julius is not the sort of guy you want to fuck around with. He's organised crime, specialising in cash-in-transit robbery, in cahoots with a Mozambican car theft syndicate, they think he and his gang does forty per cent of car hijackings in Gauteng. And he has political connections.'
'So why is he messing around with a game truck in Limpopo?'
'That is the question.'
'Which I am going to ask him.'
'You're out of your fucking mind.'
'That's why you find me irresistible.'
'Hah!' she said. Then: 'Go and find Flea van Jaarsveld and your firearm. That's all Diederik Brand and I are going to finance.'
'Just in case, Jeanette,' I used my new favourite phrase, 'if I wanted to talk to Julius-the-Bull, how would I go about it?' I knew she would know all about him. Her network was impressive.
'Get Flea first.'
'Come on, Jeanette ...'
'Christ, Lemmer ...'
I waited.
'The Bull Run. It's a restaurant, beside the Balalaika Hotel in Sandton. Specialises in steaks. He hangs out there, announcing to all and sundry that the place is named after him.'
I would have to call Lotter again. Johannesburg was now part of our flight plan.
When I came back from my late afternoon jog, there was a message from Lotter on my cellphone. 'Weather is looking good, still waiting for flight clearance for Zim. I'll pick you up at half past nine.'
I tried Ehrlichmann again. The satellite phone rang.
'Base camp,' a man's voice answered.
'Ehrlichmann?'
The satellite delayed his reply. 'Yes?'
'My name is Lemmer. I worked with Diederik Brand to get the rhinos here.'
The moment of silence again, the signal bouncing through space. 'This is not a secure line.' Rhodesian accent, modulated, slow and patient.
'I need to come and see you.'
'Why?'
Because I wanted to look him in the eye, to see if he was lying. 'Diederik didn't tell you?'
'Tell me what?' he asked, very careful.
'The ... our cargo. How miraculously they healed.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Did you speak to Diederik this morning?'
'Yes.'
'What did he tell you?'
He was quiet so long that I thought the connection was lost. 'I'm sorry. I don't know you.'
'Call Diederik. He will tell you I rode shotgun on the lorry. He says you spoke about the health of the cargo early this morning.'
He considered that first. 'He asked me if they had a skin disease when I last saw them. I said no.'
'Nothing more?'
'No.'
'I'm flying up there tomorrow morning. I need to talk to you.' 'You're flying to Harare?'
'I'm flying to wherever you are. Do you have a landing strip?'
Another long pause. 'I hope you have a very good pilot.'
37
While basic tracking skills can be trained in a short period, the more sophisticated aspects of tracking could take many years to develop. Furthermore, the intuitive and creative aspects require an inherent aptitude, so only some people have the potential to become expert trackers.
The Art of Tracking
I watched 7de Laan on TV first. Then the aromas lured me to the kitchen. Agatha's note on the kitchen table:
Dear Mister Lemmer,
I made your favourite, Mister Lemmer, to build up your strength. I don't like the fighting, but thank you for restoring Miss Emma's honour.
Yours sincerely, Agatha le Fleur
She was short and round, sixty-five years old, had brought five children into the world, and treated me as the sixth. She made liberal use of the royal 'we' in her scolding and care. 'We must put the washing in the laundry basket, we spend so much on these clothes, look how they are just thrown down here.' On a Monday morning: 'We can't leave the whole weekend's cups and glasses all over the house.' Whenever I came back from a contract, she always inspected me from top to toe: 'Ay, ay, we are getting too thin, tomorrow we will have meat, Miss Emma likes a strong man, we can see that.'
And if there was something serious to communicate, then there'd be the letter on the table, formal, then it was 'Mister'.
I opened the oven door. Lamb rib, slow roasted, crackly on the
outside, butter soft on the inside, the taste ... indescribable. That meant there was salad in the fridge, since, 'We must have a balanced diet,' even though no scrap of salad ever passed her lips. Tonight it was baby beetroot, round as billiard balls, and feta. I dished up, opened a bottle of Birdfield red grape juice and poured a glass. Emma had brought me two bottles in July Since then I had been addicted. I ordered it by the case from Klawer.
I took my plate, glass and the bottle and went to sit at the table on the back veranda.
Thank you for restoring Miss Emma's honour.
She understood because she knew about life without honour. She knew about poverty and humiliation, she knew first hand the terrible struggle to maintain her humanity, her dignity. She knew what it was worth.
Diederik Brand had asked: 'You really can't just let this go, can you?' without understanding. He had never lost everything.
The answer to his question lay in Agatha le Fleur's letter. And in my childhood. And on a dark road in the Waterberg.
I finished the food, poured the last of the grape juice into the glass, looked up at the stars, the unutterably beautiful firmament of the Karoo. Despite the lack of sleep and the pain in my body I found pleasure in this moment, this place. My house, which I had rebuilt bit by bit, like my life. Still so much to do, but it was my safe haven, my castle, my refuge. My key that fitted in the lock. I knew the sounds of my house, the creak of old roof beams, the ticking of the zinc roof as it cooled at night, the moan of antique water pipes. I knew the smell of each room, the cool corners in summer, the warm glow of the Aga stove in winter. And under my bare feet the feel of the floorboards in the passage, the carpet in the bedroom, the stone on the veranda. My sweat and blood and labour was in the renovated parts, the demolished walls, the calluses on my hands from carrying bricks and pushing the wheelbarrow and swinging the hammer, until the house had become part of me.
And all around me, the village, so perfectly silent now. Here and there a light would still burn, a television flicker: vulnerable, good people whiling away the hours before bedtime. Soon the speckled eagle owl would hoot, two lonely syllables from his nest in the pine tree opposite the old-age home. Two porcupines would push their way under my fence and raid my garden. The wind would rustle through the pear trees, a truck would drone past on the tar road on the way to Victoria West. Predictable, routine, ordered, a rhythm that had not changed in a hundred years. I was crazy about it, I couldn't live without it any more.
I would be careful, b
ecause Diederik Brand was part of this whole. He might be a cheat and a rascal, but he was Loxton's. His pedigree went back four generations in this district, he was part of the local DNA. Here he was tolerated and forgiven, here with a wry laugh they said: 'Ay, that Diederik,' because there was loyalty forged over decades, forebears who died together in the Boer War, the shared hardship of drought, pests and plagues, the isolation that made everyone dependent on each other, tomorrow they still had to get along, at the co-op, the church bazaar, the livestock auction.
I would need more than a forged permit to punish Diederik.
Sleepless. Emma's scent was still on my bed, the house incomplete without her, as if the structure and the spaces sensed her absence. I missed her.
I would drive down to Cape Town, stand in front of her and lay my life out before her, so that she could say that she just couldn't deal with it. Then I would live with the consequences. No other choice.
But first I would go looking for Flea and Inkunzi. Get my Glock. And answers.
I thought of all the unanswered questions, relived the past seventy- two hours, searching for sense, a tangle of interwoven events, knotted threads and wires. I picked at it, tugging at ends here and there, and only pulled the knot tighter. Until I wondered where Flea van Jaarsveld had disappeared to in the night - sixty kilometres from Diederik's farm to the nearest town, ten kilometres to the nearest larger gravel road, not even cellphone reception. She didn't know the area, she didn't know anyone . . .
Then I realised that she did know someone, someone who had made calf's eyes at her, someone who had tried to explain her attitude with a compassionate, 'She must be tired.' Someone who had forged a bond with her over 500 kilometres.
I got up and looked at the clock. A quarter to ten. He might still be awake. I called the regional exchange, asked if they had the number for the le Riches of Pampoenpoort.
'I'm ringing . . .'
It rang, far-off and monotonous, the static on the line chirped and crackled. 'Hello, this is Lourens.' Excited, wide awake, hopeful.
'Lourens, it's Lemmer.'
'Hello, Oom, how are you?' Just a touch of disappointment, as if he had hoped it would be someone else.
'Very well, thanks.' There was no sense in beating about the bush. 'Lourens, did you pick up Cornel at Diederik's last night?'
A long silence, before he said: 'Oom ... Can I call you back? From my cellphone?'
He didn't want to answer over the party line. That alone spoke volumes.
'Of course.' I gave him my number.
It was twelve minutes before he called, in a muted tone. 'How did you know, Oom?'
'I suspected it, Lourens.'
'Oom, I...'
'This is just between us, Lourens. I give you my word. Did she ask you to fetch her?'
Hesitation before he answered. 'Yes, Oom.'
'All I really want to know is where you took her.'
'Ay, Oom, I... She ... To town, Oom. I didn't want to just... But she said someone was coming to pick her up. Why are you asking?'
'We're just worried about her. She didn't tell Diederik she was leaving.'
'She said she left them a note.'
Flea van Jaarsveld, queen of the white lie. 'It must have got lost. What time did you drop her in town?'
'It was about three in the morning, Oom.'
'You don't know who picked her up?'
'She just said a girlfriend, Oom. She waited outside the police station.'
'And she told you to go?'
'Yes, Oom ...' Something in his voice told me there was more.
'This is just between us, Lourens.'
'The thing is, Oom, she says she is in a relationship, she didn't want...'
'The friend to see you?'
'Yes, Oom,' relieved I understood.
'Last question. What did she have with her?'
'Shoo, um ... Bags, Oom, two bags, a red one and a yellow one.'
'What happened to her doctor's case?'
'Shoo, Oom, that's a good question.'
'And the yellow bag? How big was it?'
'Oom?'
'The yellow bag. Bigger than the red one?'
It took a while for the penny to drop, but despite his state of infatuation and the minimum of sleep, he did work it out: 'Fu-uck,' he said softly. 'The yellow one. She didn't have ... At Oom Wickus's place she just had the red one and the doctor's case.' Then in sudden concern, 'Oom, is she in trouble?'
'How big was the yellow bag?'
'About... How shall I say, about as big as a fleece, Oom.'
'A fleece?'
'Yes, Oom, the fleece of one sheep.'
I tried to imagine it. 'How heavy was the bag?'
'Oom, what has she done?'
'Lourens, it's a long story. When I find out I will let you know. How heavy was the bag?'
'I don't know, Oom, she loaded and offloaded it herself, when I tried to help she said she was a strong girl.'
'Have you got her number?' Just in case.
Another hesitation. 'Oom ...'
'I won't tell her where I got it.' I searched for pen and paper in the kitchen drawer.
He gave me the number. I let him repeat it. Then he asked: 'Oom, please, what's going on?'
'Lourens, I really don't know. But I am going to try to find out. Thank you very much. I promise you I won't breathe a word.'
'Thanks, Oom.' Genuine relief. Then: 'I nearly forgot. She said I must tell you ...'
'Oh?'
'She said, if Lemmer is looking for something, tell him I've got it.'
I keyed Flea's number into my phone and called. 'The number you have dialled does not exist...' No big surprises there.
If Lemmer is looking for something, tell him I've got it. It was a message. It read: 'Leave me alone, or else ...'
That was a chance I would have to take.
When I got into bed again, I wondered if she had a real conscience. She had played Lourens, all the way. The attack had been a bonus for her.
Did she know that a man who has looked death in the face is more receptive to the temptations of the flesh?
I would get her.
38
Tracking requires intermittent attention, a constant refocusing between minute details of the track and the whole pattern of the environment.
The Art of Tracking: Principles of tracking
Lotter landed at twenty-seven minutes past nine, taxied the plane alongside my Ranger, undipped the bubble and shouted, 'Howzit, Lemmer, not bad timing, is it? Jeez, what happened to your face?'
'I walked into a door.'
'You do know they come with handles ...'
I decided to trust my instincts about Lotter. I told him about our journey with the rhinos, leaving nothing out, not even my suspicions about his involvement, and my doubts about Diederik's truthfulness. He mulled it over for quite a few minutes, and then he laughed, first in disbelief, then in comprehension.
'That explains it,' he said.
'What?'
'Diederik, last night. When I phoned him to check if he was going to pay for this flight. He said "I suppose I'll have to".'
'When did he ask you to come and pick me up, the previous time?'
'Last Friday afternoon. But that's par for the course, he's always in a hurry and late.'
'What did he say?'
'He wanted to send someone along with a game truck. Maybe himself, maybe someone else.'
So Diederik hadn't lied about that. But then, what did he lie about? Because he had, about something.
'You said you've flown him to Mozambique before?'
'Sure.'
'What was he doing there?'
'Listen, by now you should know that Diederik is a bit of a bullshit- ter. He's all about insinuation and overstatement. That Mozambique affair, all he said was, "Big bucks, Lotter, wish I could tell you". You just have to take him as he is. He's entertaining, he's charismatic, he's a character, first time I flew him, he didn't pay, all charming ove
r the phone, "Still not got the money?", went on like that for three months. Till the next time he wanted to fly, I told him, "No offence, but for you it is pay as you go, and only after you settle your prior account", and he laughed and said "Sure, Lotter", and I never had trouble with him again. And what he does once he gets off my plane is his business. But he knows: I fly by the rules.'
'You must have wondered about his business.'
'Of course. We have this thing, Diederik and I. When he phones and says he wants to go somewhere, I ask him, "Who are you conning this time?" and he says, "You know how it is, Lotter, there's a sucker born every minute". But exactly what he does, I don't care.'
'I do,' I said.
'I can see that.'
The Swanepoels' landing strip was a broad, straight length of farm road a kilometre from the farmyard.
Lotter flew low over the house before setting down the RV-7 with ease. When Swannie fetched us a minute later with the Land Cruiser, Lotter was busy anchoring the plane with pegs and ropes.
Swannie admired the plane. 'Jissie, that's a sexy little thing.'
'American,' I said, 'wretched Van Grunsven design.'
'Really,' said Swannie. 'What happened to your face, Oom?'
'He walked into a door,' said Lotter, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially.
'Genuine?'
'Genuine,' Lotter was enjoying himself. 'I make a point of avoiding doors in the Karoo. They can be lethal.'
Swannie looked to me for a sign that Lotter was pulling his leg. I looked away. He gave up. 'Ma says you must sommer come and have lunch, Oom, how are the rhinos, what does Flea, I mean Cornel, say, when is she coming to visit, did you all have a good trip to the Karoo?'
'The rhinos are alive and kicking,' I said. 'And when I see Flea, I'll ask her.'
'Ma's name was Lollie, and she didn't match the rough simplicity of the Swanepoel men - she was a slim, dignified woman, not pretty in the conventional sense, but skilfully groomed. There was humour in her eyes, as though she would laugh easily, and an ease, a contentment with herself and her life. The interior of the farmhouse was a surprise. I had expected hunting trophies and crocheted doilies, but found tasteful old wooden furniture, oriental carpets on polished wood floors, original paintings on the walls, and a long bookshelf filled with hardcover books.