by Deon Meyer
'When was this?' I asked.
'Early July. Two days after I called her, she was here. Quite the little negotiator. If I supplied a team to help load the rhinos, she would organise everything else - the lorry, the drugs for the animals. But she didn't come cheap. Two hundred and fifty grand ...'
Flea had nearly three months and a quarter of a million rand to organise it all. And most likely the cooperation of Johnson Chitepo and the Zim authorities, to have the plastic holders manufactured, to manipulate roadblocks, to get them safely to the border. If Ehrlichmann was right.
'I kept track of the rhinos, we arranged a final date for the capture, and last week, we did it. Cornel darted them, we loaded, and off she went. Pretty uneventful, really. And those two hook-lips were in fine health when she drove down that road,' he said, pointing in the direction of the jeep track that led away from camp.
'When she drove down that road?' I asked.
'That's right.'
'No driver?'
'She said she had a relief driver waiting in Kwekwe. That's about 150 clicks from here.'
43
Every person has an individual mannerism in the way he or she walks, leaving a 'signature' in his or her spoor.
The Art of Tracking: Introduction
I couldn't sleep. I lay in the tent listening to the sounds of Africa, recognising only the howl of a jackal. The other sounds were indecipherable: birds, insects, night creatures living their secret lives in darkness. Like so many of us.
Before we finally left the dying campfire, I asked Ehrlichmann two more questions. The first was whether Flea ever talked about her home, her background.
'Funny you should ask,' he said. 'The night before we captured the rhinos, I asked her where she came from. And she pointed to this red carry bag of hers and she said, "That's my home". So I said, no, I meant where did she grow up? And she gave a rather strange laugh and said, "purgatory". Never quite figured out what she meant.'
Then I asked him about Diederik Brand and the 'Kvaerner' crates.
'Well...' he said, looking at his glass as though there was something very significant to be found in it. 'This is Africa.'
Did he know they contained weapons?
'Yes, I knew.'
Where were the crates bound?
He stood up, not entirely steady on his feet now and said to me: 'Come.'
He took a paraffin lamp from one of the tables and walked away through the dust. I followed, Lotter remained seated.
He headed away from the tents, up the slope of the hill. Behind dark thorn trees and a rocky outcrop, hidden in the dark shadows of trees, were two low-roofed corrugated-iron buildings, the sort that construction companies frequently used as temporary workshops. Painted a dirty green, the strokes of hasty paintwork were visible. The double doors of one stood open. In the faint light of the lamp I could see two Land Rovers, one raised on wooden blocks. Parts, old tyres, tools. Ehrlichmann went to the other building, passed the lamp over to me to hold, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, fiddled with them and unlocked the door. He pulled the door open, took the lamp back and went inside. He lifted a tarpaulin and the dust drifted up into the lamp beams.
'Here they are.'
The crates were there.
I looked. Two of the crates had been broached. The others were still untouched. He opened one. Guns, packed in bubble wrap, a few gaps where some had been removed.
'Are they for sale?'
'Do you want one?'
'Depends on the price.'
'Help yourself. It's free.'
I stared at him. He grimaced at my disbelief, bent, took out a MAG-7, opened another crate and picked up a box of ammunition, propping it all in my arms. He draped the tarpaulin over again and walked out. Outside he put the lamp on the ground while he took his time locking up. We walked back. Halfway he stopped, held up the lamp and had a good look at me. 'You are quite a piece of work, you know. So righteous.' No reproach, just an observation. He began to turn away, but reconsidered and confronted me again. 'I do believe you have your own demons.' He lifted his other hand, and for a tiny surreal moment I thought he would strike me. But he just loosened his ponytail, and shook his head lightly, so the hair tumbled over his shoulders. He said: 'I distribute the guns. Amongst my farmer friends. The few I have left. That's what Diederik wanted. That is why he made this gift.'
Then he turned slowly and walked back to the campfire. To Lotter he said, 'I bid you goodnight,' collected his staff and did his dignified Rafiki shuffle over to the tents.
I lay listening and thinking of night animals and secret lives. Of impressions. And the stories we weave, so frequently embellished in the telling. Of the layer upon layer of camouflage we paint on, creating our facades with such practised skill that the brush strokes go mostly unseen.
Diederik Brand. The rascal. The farmer con man. A 'character' Lourens le Riche and Lotter had called him. Not the Black Swan I had taken him to be. His paint was grey, the shades just light enough to evoke the good-natured Bo-Karoo smile that said, 'Ay, that Diederik'. I suspected he had created this image deliberately, his wicked deeds bordering on crimes, in the barely safe no-man's-land of social acceptability. It was, as Emma would say of her clients and their products, his unique selling point, the quality that made him stand out from the crowd. His story.
Was he hiding his role of benefactor from Loxton deliberately, the emergency aid to Zim farmers, the gift of a consignment of MAG-7 shotguns, because it would alter his image, make him less interesting?
How strange. Will the real Diederik Brand please stand up. Or is that who he really is, the sum of his contradictions, the man who felt such contentment standing at the gate and watching the two rhinos grazing peacefully, knowing his money saved them, his work, his intervention, his white lies and forgeries.
And Ehrlichmann, with his hair and bangles and long staff. A trademark, unsubtle, unapologetic, the image strengthened and refined by his sagacity, the mannerisms, emphases, voice, spellbinding tales. By nature I was wary of his kind, always suspecting them of hiding something. Or at least living in a fantasy world, either option a danger in my profession.
I do believe you have your own demons. That had many implications: that he had his. That he had the insight - and interest - to notice mine. That he wasn't judgemental. Characteristics that made him both more interesting, more acceptable than the carefully cultivated, exaggerated image. Which made me wonder: Why then?
The answer was, just as it was in Diederik's case, in his desire to be noticed.
Emma had a theory that this need was at the heart of every brand name - people's need to stand out, to escape from the homogeneity of the masses. We wanted to create an image through all that we purchased, hold up a placard of ourselves to the world that said 'this is me'. It was an interesting, exciting concept to Emma. For me it was plain depressing, because no longer were we defined by what we did, but by what we owned. It was the engine of consumerism, superficiality and greed, the origin of all the lies and subterfuge.
That, I realised, was what motivated Flea van Jaarsveld. It was her remedy for the tragic past, the trauma, the humiliation. I remembered when we talked about rich Afrikaners in the lorry. They are not all like that, Flea had said. Because she so badly wanted to be one. She believed it would ease her pain.
She was incredibly focused, relentless in her deception. In my mind's eye I could see her throughout the elephant census, in her tight-fitting clothes, busy, busy, busy, searching out opportunities, making contacts. The disdainful cold shoulder for the useless, the warm courtship of the useful.
She had manipulated me, and particularly Lourens, with skill, handled us flawlessly through her suggestions, her careful approaches. She must have been terrified, there on the ground in front of the truck, as Inkunzi and his henchmen searched it, all her plans hanging in the balance, lives on the line. But how quickly she had recovered and adapted.
The theft of my Glock. Was it the delay at the Knights
of Harley that gave her the idea I would come looking for her? So that she made provision for that as well?
'She has such potential,' Ehrlichmann had said. But it was much more than potential. She had set up the entire operation, planned it and carried it through.
I wondered what she would do when she realised that money would not heal her wounds.
44
The shooting of dangerous animals should be left to experienced rangers who know what they are doing.
The Art of Tracking: Dangerous animals
We ate breakfast alone. Chipinduka, the Land Rover driver said: 'Shumba has gone walking. He sends his greetings, he says goodbye, and you will always be welcome.'
'He walks a lot?' Lotter asked.
'Every morning and every afternoon.' He took something out of his breast pocket. 'Shumba said I must give you this.'
I took it and had a look. A business card, the colour of sand. The image of a paw print. Cornel van Jaarsveld. A Googlemail email address, and a cellphone number. Not the same one I got from Lourens.
I heard Lotter ask Chipinduka 'What does "Shumba" mean?'
'It is Shona for "lion". For the hair. He has the hair of a lion.'
'Do you know animal tracks?' I asked him.
'I do.'
I showed him Flea's card. 'This track? Which animal is that?'
He studied the paw print. 'I think that is the brown hyena.'
'The brown hyena?'
'Yes. It is not like the other hyena.'
'Why?'
'It walks alone.'
While Lotter loosened the plane's guyropes, he asked: 'What's the plan, Stan?'
I examined the short landing strip, the hills around us. 'Step one is to survive takeoff.'
'And if, by some miracle, we make it?'
'Can you drop me off in Jo'burg, please.'
'You think she's there?'
'Probably not. But my last lead is.' Inkunzi, who had pressed against Flea and whispered in her ear.
'And you have a score to settle.'
'That may have to wait.'
He raised his eyebrows at me.
'I will probably have to choose between information and satisfaction. Tough choice.'
'I've noticed that about you,' he said, and began going through his pre-flight checks.
Both Shonas watched him with great interest. 'You want to go for a spin?' Lotter asked Chipinduka.
Wide, white smile, heads shaking. 'We are not crazy.'
'Exactly,' I said.
They laughed.
Once Lotter had finished, we said goodbye and got into the plane.
He was still irritatingly cheerful. 'Ever experienced a miracle?'
'Not really.'
'Then this should be a big moment for you ...'
The miracle occurred, but I don't know how, my eyes were tightly shut.
When we reached cruising altitude and Lotter finished talking pilot dialect over the radio, I asked him if he had ever thought of himself as an animal.
'What sort of a girly-man question is that anyway?' he asked in a perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger-accent.
'I think it's the new fashion. Shumba the maned lion, Flea the brown hyena. Snake was the one who was killed in the hijacking, and I am on my way to visit Inkunzi the bull. What is it with these people?'
'It's part of our culture, I suppose,' said Lotter, philosophically. Then, a few minutes later: 'You ever read Laurens van der Post, the naturalist?'
'No.'
'He wrote about an encounter between a little meerkat and this six- foot cobra ...'
'And?'
'That's you, right there. And I don't mean the cobra.' 'Did the meerkat win?'
'Thing is, I can't remember.'
We landed at Lanseria just after twelve. 'I will have to drop you on the apron, I have to refuel. By the way, is that shotgun in your bag?'
He had said nothing last night when I came back from my walk in the dark with Ehrlichmann carrying the MAG-7 and the box of ammunition. 'Yes.'
'Then just tell them we've come from Musina. We don't want you to go through customs.'
'Thanks, Lotter.'
He shook my hand. 'It's been a pleasure and an education.'
'I can almost say the same, if we leave the Zim airstrip out of the equation.'
He laughed. 'Good luck, mate. And when it's all over, gimme a call. I want to know what happens.'
At the car rental I asked if they had a Ford.
'A Ford?' It seemed to be an indecent suggestion.
'Yes, please.'
'Why?' Very dubious.
'I like Fords.'
She peered sidelong at my battered face while her computer completed its search. 'I can give you an Ikon.'
'Thank you very much.'
She held my ID book up to the light to make sure it was genuine. The price of loyalty to Ford. Along with visible wounds.
I drove to Sandton on a freeway that was overcrowded and slow. Wondered when the Gautrain would start running, because that was the only thing I had against Johannesburg: this frustrating traffic.
At the Sandton Holiday Inn they didn't discriminate against my choice of car or my appearance, they gave me a room on the second floor with a street view. When I had put my bag on the bed, I took out Flea's card and used the hotel phone to call her cellphone.
It went straight to voicemail. 'This is Cornel. Please leave a message.' Businesslike, a little hasty. Flea in her efficient vet mode. I ended the call. Then I called Jeanette to bring her up to date.
My employer was a woman of many talents, but the one that impressed me most was her unbounded ability to adapt the word 'fuck'. She used it four times in the course of my narrative, every time with a different emphasis and meaning. The last one, when I came to the part about the diamonds, was long and drawn-out, which meant she was deeply impressed by Flea's entrepreneurial initiative.
'That is why I have to talk to Inkunzi. He is the last remaining link.'
'Talk, you say?'
'I will also explain politely to him that Body Armour's personnel should be left in peace.'
'And you expect me to believe you?'
'Jeanette, Nicola's game truck ... Inkunzi could have had the registration written down. If they want to find us, they will. As much as I would love to rearrange his face, it's not a sensible option. Lourens and I would spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.'
'Shee-it,' she said. 'Expect a big storm: Lemmer used the word "sensible".'
'If something happened to Lourens or Nicola ... Loxton would never forgive me. In any case, the greater priority is to get the Glock back.'
'Mmm ...' she said. 'And what gives you the idea Inkunzi will want to talk?'
'I've got a plan.'
'Tell me.'
I did. Once I had finished she said: 'You call that a plan?'
'It could work. Have you got a better idea?'
'My plan is for you to go back to the boondocks and drop the whole thing. But I know you won't do that. I'll get his home address for you. Is there anything else you need?'
'Yes. I need a make-up artist, please. My face is a bit too conspicuous at the moment.'
'Let me see what I can do.'
45
Because they rely on their camouflage to remain undetected, Puff Adders account for the greatest number of serious snakebite cases.
The Art of Tracking: Dangerous animals
I drove to the address that Jeanette had sent via SMS. The Bull's kraal, Gallo Manor, a rich man's neighbourhood within spitting distance of the Johannesburg Country Club, quite a long way down a dead-end street. Big trees on the pavement, a two-metre plastered wall without electrified wire, the house barely visible behind it. Shrubs, trees, climbing vines on the other side of the wall. It would be a dense, tidy garden, filled with shadows.
Electronic gates with CCTV camera, and two signs: Python Patrols -Alarms & Armed Response. And Python CCTV -Your 24/7 security eye.
I w
as expecting the alarms. I had planned for them. The camera was an additional risk, but not insurmountable.
The patrol vehicle of a private security company drove past. Eagle Eye. More animal associations. Perhaps Lotter was right, it was ingrained in our culture.
I turned at the end of the street, pretending to be looking for an address, came back again, had another good look. Then I drove off; stopping and staring was not an option in this neighbourhood. And that presented my biggest problem.
At Sandton City I bought a Panasonic fx37 digital camera, an Energizer head lamp with a red filter option, a baseball cap, a cheap plastic spectacle frame, a pair of thin leather gloves and a book to read - Of Tricksters, Tyrants and Turncoats by Max du Preez.
Late that afternoon the make-up artist knocked on my door. Her name was Wanda and she had a sense of humour. She saw my face. 'I hope the other guy looks worse.'
She sat me down on the high folding chair she had brought along. Her aluminium case with brushes, powders, paints and lipsticks was on my hotel bed. She stood close to me, an attractive woman in her thirties, round angel face, dark hair, soft eyes, and patted a little round sponge on my face. She smelled nice.
'How do you know Jeanette?' I asked her.
'In the Biblical sense.' Not a hint of embarrassment.
'Divorced?'
'No. Born that way. And you?'
'Beaten up this way.'
She laughed, a lovely, deep sound.
When she had finished and stood back to admire her work, she said: 'Don't rub your face. Don't sweat, don't brush against people, don't scratch if it itches. When you go to bed, wash it off with soap and water.' Then she held up a hand mirror so I could see her handiwork.