by Tony Park
Mike took a deep breath. If Orlov was the man they were looking for, then Mike had been responsible for the Russian’s injury. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Theron continued. ‘The professional hunter’s a white Namibian, of German descent, living in South Africa.’
Mike took a pen from the desk. Cleverly, Theron had not written either of the names on the notepaper, just the hotel addresses. ‘What’s his name?’ Mike asked.
‘Hess. Karl Hess. As I said, I know him from the old days.’
Mike sensed Theron did not want to reminisce about his time in the former South African protectorate while he was sitting in the room with a Russian-trained former ANC cadre.
‘Be careful of him in particular, Mike. Let’s just say he can be a very dangerous man.’
Theron gave Mike the licence-plate number for the Land Cruiser Hess and Orlov were using, and passed a flimsy piece of fax paper across to him. ‘That’s Orlov. It’s a copy of his passport photo, and you know what they say about passport photos.’
‘If you look like your passport photo you’re too sick to be travelling,’ Mike said, studying the grainy image. ‘What about Hess?’
‘I don’t have a photograph on me, but you can’t miss him. One-ninety centimetres, athletic build, tanned, short blond hair, blue eyes. Hitler’s wet dream.’
After Mike finished writing an addendum to his original statement, he said his goodbyes to Radebe and Theron.
At the front door of the police station, Theron shook Mike’s hand and said, ‘Remember, we just want information on where they’re heading, what they’re up to. Nothing more. Don’t do anything foolish.’
‘Goodbye, Fanie,’ Mike said.
He sat in the cab of the truck and stared hard at the grainy photo of the Russian. If Theron’s assumptions were true, then this man’s greed had caused the deaths of many innocent people.
He thought of the tourists waiting for him back at the restaurant in Messina. His first duty, he knew, must be to them; their safety was his paramount concern. He weighed his options. He could quit, cancel the tour and take them back to Jo’burg, but by the time he sorted all that out the hunters would nearly be leaving Zimbabwe. On the other hand, the overland truck provided him with a perfect cover – no one would expect to be tailed by a tour vehicle.
He thought of Isabella’s body laid out in the butcher’s coldroom, of Fernando and Carlos.
Mike knew what he should do, and what he had to do. They were not the same thing. He had a new priority on this trip. It was time to do something foolish.
12
Mike drove back to Messina town and parked the truck outside a gun store he’d noticed on the way to the border. From the locked box behind the seat he took out his wallet, which contained cash and his South African gun licence. Rian had insisted Mike get a permit when he first came to stay with him, even though, despite Rian’s repeated advice, he had never felt the need to buy a gun for his own protection.
Things were different now, though. Mike had heard the dead man’s click once in his life. He never wanted to hear that sound again.
‘Goeiemiddag,’ the overweight Afrikaner man behind the counter greeted Mike as he walked into the shop.
‘Sorry, I only speak English. I’m looking for a pistol. Automatic. Nothing fancy,’ Mike said, pulling the licence out of his pocket and dropping it on the glass-topped counter. He looked around and found he was surrounded by weapons – knives, coshes, pistols and rifles. On the counter to one side of him was a long, thin sword whose sheath looked like an ordinary walking stick.
‘Sure,’ said the man, who seemed a bit miffed at Mike’s straightforward approach.
Mike didn’t care. He didn’t have time to gossip.
‘Is there a type you are familiar with?’ the man asked.
Mike had only been trained on one type of pistol in the army. ‘Browning, nine millimetre.’
‘You are English?’
‘No.’
‘But ex-military if you know that pistol.’
‘I haven’t got much time. Have you got one?’
The dealer nodded and reached under the cabinet. ‘It’s in good condition.’ He drew back the slide mechanism on top of the pistol to show Mike the chamber was empty, then handed it to him. The weight of the black hunk of metal in his hand was oddly comforting. Mike looked down the short barrel, at the floor.
‘I’ll take it, plus a box of ammo,’ he said. He paid in cash.
‘Let’s hope you only ever need it on the practice range,’ the shopkeeper said as Mike turned to leave.
‘Let’s hope,’ he replied.
Mike had to squint against the glare of the sun as he opened the door and stepped from its cool air-conditioned interior into the baking heat of the main street.
‘Fuck!’
In front of him was an overland driver’s worst nightmare. A cloud of black smoke blurted from Nelson’s exhaust pipe and Mike heard the unmistakable rattle of the big diesel engine coming to life. He looked up into the cab and saw a young black man behind the wheel, quickly glancing behind him to check the traffic in the main street. Mike started running as the yellow truck reversed ponderously into the street.
What he saw next confused and alarmed him even more. From across the road, Sarah Thatcher left a telephone booth and sprinted out towards the truck. Mike had left her with the others, a couple of kilometres away at the Spur restaurant. What was she doing across the road? He could see that she would reach the truck first and was suddenly afraid for her safety. The thief had Nelson in first gear now and was pulling away. Sarah was beside the truck, though, her legs pumping and arms outstretched.
She grabbed the handrail next to the passenger cab door, where Mike normally fitted the fold-out steps. Without the steps, however, it was a metre and a half from the ground up to the bottom of the doorway. She got both hands on the railing as Mike closed on the back of the truck and for a few seconds she was dragged along, her feet alternately dragging and skipping on the hot bitumen of the road. Finally, she lifted her body weight, her slim arms straining with the effort, and got her knees onto the door sill, then she disappeared inside the cab.
Mike’s heart was pounding with the effort of running and he was breathing harder than he had in months. Sitting in a truck driving for weeks on end had done nothing to improve his fitness level. There was a fold-down tailgate on the back of the truck where he stored firewood and the spare gas bottle. He just about had his hand on the chain supporting the tailgate when the thief knocked Nelson into second and the truck opened the gap a few more centimetres. Mike looked left and right as he ran, but there wasn’t a policeman in sight. The mobile phone was in the locked box behind the seat. On board were cash, cards and all the belongings of the ten people in his charge.
He briefly thought of his new pistol, which he still clutched, incongruously, in a plastic shopping bag. By the time he got it out and loaded it, the truck would be long out of range. Besides, Sarah was on board. He dismissed the idea. ‘Shit!’ he swore again as he started to slow his pace. He would have to call the police from a shop.
As he started to veer off the roadway the truck lurched to a sudden halt, not twenty metres away. A mix of adrenaline and rage pumped power to Mike’s legs and he sprinted to the now stationary vehicle. He grabbed the handrail and was about to hoist himself up when he heard Sarah scream.
Think, he ordered himself. Mike let go of the handrail and crouched by the side of the idling truck. He fumbled in the plastic bag and took out the pistol. He thumbed the magazine release and the empty magazine slid out of the hand grip into his left hand. As he opened the box of bullets, the truck started to move again. Mike clenched the plastic bag containing the bullets between his teeth, thrust the empty pistol into the waistband of his shorts, grabbed the handrail and hoisted himself up into the rear compartment of the truck.
In the driver’s cab, Sarah was on her knees on the passenger seat scratching and clawing
at the face of the driver. The man took his left hand from the gearstick and swung his arm around in a savage backhand. Sarah reeled from the blow to her cheek and slumped back in her seat, stunned. The driver looked to his left and right, probably checking for police. They were just outside the main shopping district now and he swung the steering wheel around to the left, pulling over on the edge of the road.
As Mike dashed up the inside of the rear cabin the man grabbed a handful of Sarah’s blonde hair and wrenched her towards him. His right hand moved to his trouser pocket. With a click and flash of sunlight on steel the flick-knife was suddenly at her throat.
‘Quiet, or you die, bitch,’ he hissed into Sarah’s face. Still she struggled and reached for the hand holding the knife. The point touched the pale skin of her neck now. Feeling it, she lowered her hands.
Mike leaned into the driver’s cab through the connecting window from the rear compartment, catching them both by surprise, and rammed the squat muzzle of the Browning into the man’s temple.
‘Drop the fucking knife,’ Mike said.
‘Christ,’ said Sarah. ‘Where have you been?’
He looked at her, annoyed at her question. ‘Drop it or you’re dead!’ he said, louder this time. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb and the click seemed to echo in the confines of the cab. The man’s glance shifted from Sarah to Mike. Slowly, he lowered his arm and let the knife drop to the floor beside him.
‘Now open the door,’ Mike ordered.
As the young man opened the door, Mike clapped the butt of the pistol down hard on his temple and shoved him out. He fell, landing heavily on his side with a yelp of pain.
‘Go!’ Mike yelled at him as he staggered, then broke into a run.
Mike climbed through into the front cab and dropped the pistol on the driver’s seat. ‘Sarah, how are you? Did he hurt you?’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, as she gingerly fingered the darkening welt on the side of her face. Her fingers moved to the point on her neck where the blade had rested.
‘No, it’s me who should be thanking you,’ he said. ‘You saved the truck, all of our stuff. Without you he would have got away and –’
‘He would have killed me,’ she said, even quieter than before. The realisation was beginning to hit home and Mike could see her hands starting to shake. The tremors spread up her arms, and she hugged herself to try to steady her nerves.
‘It’s OK,’ he said gently. He reached out for her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He felt her go limp against his body and the sweet smell of her hair filled his nostrils. ‘It’s all right now.’ They sat like that, together, for a few brief seconds. She had goaded him from their first meeting and he had done nothing to earn her friendship, but she had just shown extraordinary courage and had risked her life to save what – a handful of replaceable possessions? She was not the molly-coddled, spoiled brat he had her pegged as after all.
The tender moment melted suddenly in a searing white flash of anger. Sarah sat bolt upright, breaking away from Mike’s embrace. She shifted her bottom on the seat to put more distance between them and turned icy-blue eyes on Mike. ‘Just what the fuck have you been playing at today?’
He felt anger start to colour his reply, until he realised that he was guilty of every charge she was probably going to level at him. He had lied to his passengers. He had agreed to help the police and, by doing so, might even expose them to risk. He had also broken his own cardinal rule of never leaving the truck unattended. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.
‘Spit it out. Give it to me. You owe me that much.’
She was probably right, but first he had some questions. ‘Were you following me?’
She frowned. ‘Of course I bloody well followed you. I took a cab and tailed you to the police and back into town. Now I see you’ve bought a gun,’ she said, looking at the weapon, which he had moved from the seat to the dashboard. ‘And just what do you need that for?’
Mike stuffed the pistol back into his shorts, out of sight of any passer-by.
‘I think we’ve just seen what I need it for, haven’t we?’ he replied.
‘Bullshit. Give me a cigarette,’ she ordered, running a hand through her golden hair.
He took two out of the pack in his shirt pocket and handed her one. She accepted the smoke and the light from his Zippo without thanks, then inhaled deeply and blew the smoke straight up, so that it hung like mist at the top of the cab.
‘Are you in trouble with the police?’
‘No.’
‘Then what were you doing there? Buying an alternator?’
He smiled at that one, and he thought he saw her eyes soften and the slightest trace of a smile play across her pale lips.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.’ He climbed past her into the rear cabin, and opened the clasp on the refrigerator they used for storing drinks on the road. He took out two cans of Windhoek Lager and offered her one. She nodded and he passed her the chilled beer. She climbed out of the driver’s cabin and took an airline seat across the aisle from Mike.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘I told you, it’s a long story,’ he said.
‘I’ve got time,’ she said, sipping her beer. She looked into his eyes. ‘Tell me something, would you have used that pistol? Would you have shot that man if he hadn’t dropped the knife?’
Mike pulled the pistol out of his waistband, thumbed the hammer, pointed it to the roof and pulled the trigger. Sarah winced at the click. ‘No bullets,’ he said.
She shook her head and gave a little laugh. ‘No, but if it had been loaded, would you have shot him? Would you have killed him?’
He returned her gaze, and thought of Isabella and the countless times he’d replayed those terrible few days over and over in his mind, wondering if there was anything he could have done to save her life. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me what this is all about, Mike,’ she said, and for the first time her tone was not accusatory, not angry, not indignant.
‘Off the record?’ he asked.
She hesitated a moment, then said, ‘OK. Off the record.’
He checked his watch. He reckoned he had about half an hour before the rest of the crew started to panic.
‘It started in Mozambique, about a year ago.’
13
‘OK, I’ll keep quiet about your deal with the police, but on one condition,’ Sarah said as Mike stopped the truck outside the Spur restaurant in Messina, where the rest of the passengers had long since finished their lunch.
‘What’s the catch?’ he replied, dreading but guessing the answer.
‘You keep me informed of any information you pick up about the poachers. And I want to be in on any snooping you do. You’ll need help and I’ve been trained to get information about people without them necessarily knowing about it.’
‘Sure,’ he said. He didn’t expect to be breaking into hotel rooms or sneaking about with a camera, rather just keeping an ear to the ground as they travelled, so he didn’t see any harm in Sarah knowing what he was up to. She thought she was on to the story of a lifetime – an investigative exposé of poaching and smuggling that would propel her out of the pages of Outdoor Adventurer and onto the front page of The Times or The Guardian.
‘Jeez, Sarah, what have you done to your eye? And where have you two been?’ Kylie, the Australian nurse, asked when they got out of the truck.
‘I went for a look around town and this guy tried to mug me,’ Sarah said, and was greeted with a chorus of gasps and ‘no-way’s from the assembled crew. ‘But Mike was on his way back from the garage and saw it happening. He saved me.’
Mike could see the cheeky glint in her eyes, but everyone else turned and gave him approving nods.
‘That’s not quite true. Sarah had fought the guy off, I just chased him away,’ Mike said modestly. As they climbed back into the truck, Sarah sitting next to Mike in her usual position, she smiled an
d winked at him. There was a bond between them now, of shared conspiracy and white lies. She thought she had conned him into letting her join a grand adventure. He hoped to give her nothing worth writing about.
The border crossing between Messina and Beitbridge, on the Zimbabwe side, was uneventful. This was the first crossing for the passengers and Mike shepherded them through the intricacies of African customs and immigration form-filling.
After the barcoded stamps in their passports were scanned and bleeped by officials on the South African side, they drove to Zimbabwe across the broad, mostly sandy Limpopo River on a bridge lined with razor wire and high steel fences. The former British colony of Rhodesia is less prosperous than its southern neighbour and, consequently, slower to adopt new technology. Mike thought it would be a long time before computers and barcode readers replaced the deafening thud of the rubber stamp at Zimbabwean border posts.
The different nationalities of the passengers on board the truck presented its own problems. ‘Everyone needs a visa, but the rates are different. The poms will have to pay more than the Aussies,’ he said as they parked outside the whitewashed customs and immigration office.
‘That’s not fair,’ Linda said.
‘Few things in life are.’
The hot, sticky, slow process involved a lot of queuing and called for even more patience than the previous border crossing. From the South African side, scores of Zimbabwean ex-pat workers were crossing the border in cars and vans loaded down with household furniture, pots and pans and bicycles – anything they could sell or take home to their families.
‘Does it always take this long?’ Julie asked. She fanned her face with her Zimbabwean entry permit.
‘This has been quick, believe me,’ Mike said. The border formalities for both countries had so far taken them a little more than an hour.
Once through the formalities on the Zimbabwean side they passed a long row of ramshackle stalls selling carved wooden African animals. Giraffes, some as tall as a man, dominated the menagerie. Interspersed among them were carved buffalos and rhinos, still huge at about a third the size of the real thing.