“No. But I was scared for my life. I’d seen Pockface in the building, and I knew he was after me. And you didn’t believe me. I had to get out of here. And I was proved right, because your Constable Ngane had set me up. Pockface had bribed him to let me out right into his arms. It’s Ngane you should be arresting, not me.”
“I’ll certainly be dealing with him. And when I get to the bottom of what happened, you may find yourself back in your cell.”
She felt a ray of hope. That sounded like she wasn’t going back to the cell—at least not right away.
And then he asked her the last thing she had expected.
“Do you know a man called Michael Davidson?” he said.
“The reporter from the New York Times?” Crys replied, unable to conceal the surprise in her voice.
He nodded.
“Yes…yes. I know him very well. He also came out here for National Geographic to write about the rhino poaching and horn smuggling, and then…”
Crys’s voice tapered off as her brain kicked in. Why was he asking her this? Could he be behind Michael’s disappearance? Did he want to find out if she’d discovered anything?
She’d have to be so careful.
“…then he went missing. No one’s heard from him for more than a month.”
Mabula nodded. “When was the last time you had contact with him?”
“I had an email from him about a month or so ago—he said he was at Tshukudu Game Reserve.”
“Well, he left there and after a couple of days went into Mozambique for just over a week. The police there think he was talking to rhino-horn smugglers in Maputo—he was seen with a group of Vietnamese men at a local restaurant they use. Our guess is that he was getting information for his story. Then he came back to South Africa, and after that he disappeared. No trace of him.”
At first Crys felt it was safest not to show too much interest, but now, faced with an opportunity to find out more—perhaps finally to discover something important—she simply couldn’t resist.
“I thought the Phalaborwa police were looking into it? They told National Geographic that they hadn’t found out anything. So how come you’re asking me?”
Mabula held her gaze for a while; she wondered what he was thinking. Then he opened a file on his desk and passed her what looked like the top of a cereal box.
A shock went through Crys’s whole body. She couldn’t stop herself gasping.
There was a message written on the cardboard, and she immediately recognized Michael’s distinctive handwriting. It said:
Been held prisoner here for weeks. Help me! This boy will show you where I am. Michael Davidson. National Geographic.
Oh my God, she thought. He’s alive! He’s being held prisoner, but he’s alive!
Crys realized her face had broken into a broad smile.
Mabula was watching her quizzically.
“He’s alive,” she said. “We’d just about given up hope.”
“Well, he was alive when he wrote the note. But if they didn’t kill him immediately, they probably need him for something—whoever they are. So, yes, I think this means there’s a good chance he’s still alive.”
“When did you get this? Who is this boy? Can he tell you where Michael is? I—”
Mabula held up a hand to stop the flood of questions. “We received it a day ago. But it wasn’t brought to us by a boy. A lady found it on a bench in Makosha—that’s a suburb north of here—and fortunately decided it might be important and took it to the police there. They recognized the name from our missing-persons” list.”
“It’s genuine. I recognize the handwriting. You must do something…”
Mabula nodded. “We’re working on the assumption that Davidson’s alive, and that he’s somewhere in this area. We’re trying to use our contacts to find out more.”
“Colonel, I’m sure I know who has him. It has to be Pockface! Michael was trying to trace those people. He must’ve found them, and now they’ve grabbed him. You should search the house—”
“There’s no one at the house,” Mabula interrupted. “The Portuguese haven’t returned yet, but when we have them, we’ll certainly interrogate them about your friend. And a lot of other stuff.” He paused and stared at her. “How do you know he was looking for the Portuguese gang?”
Crys realized she’d painted herself into a corner. She couldn’t lie about this—it was too important. But she also couldn’t betray Bongani’s trust. She had to speak to him first. She decided it was best to stretch the truth one more time.
“Someone at Tshukudu mentioned that he was talking about it.”
Mabula gave her a long stare, and she felt her face flush. She realized he knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth.
After a few moments, he opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a large envelope.
“I don’t know what’s going on. The plane crash looks to me like a smuggling operation gone wrong, but we couldn’t find any goods being smuggled, and we couldn’t find any money to pay for goods. So, I think someone stole whatever was on that plane.”
He paused. Crys kept quiet and still, wondering if that was an accusation. “Normally, we’d pick up rumors on the street about a big project, but it’s been dead quiet. It’s all very strange…” He paused again, looking at her suspiciously. “Now we have the Davidson situation. I’d be amazed if they weren’t connected somehow. Are you sure you don’t have anything else to tell me? It could help us find your friend.”
Once again, she’d underestimated Mabula. Maybe she’d been totally wrong about him. But the money wouldn’t help him find Michael, and she still had to get out of here…
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Mabula slid the envelope over to her. “Here’s your driver’s license and your cell phone. I can’t hold you any longer, but I don’t want you to leave the country until we’ve sorted out what’s happening. You’re to call me every morning to tell me where you are. Understood? I believe you still have work to do for your article, so that shouldn’t be a problem for you, should it?”
She picked up the envelope, weak with relief. But her mind raced. Was he really letting her go, or was it another trick? Maybe he’d be watching her, hoping she’d lead him to the money. She couldn’t care. She was getting out of there!
Now she needed a plan about what to do. If Pockface was still at large, Crys was sure he’d be looking for her, and he’d guess that she’d return to Tshukudu—in the Tshukudu Land Rover. She had to have a different plan.
“Could I please use your phone?” she asked. “And do you have the number for Tshukudu?”
A few moments later she was talking to Johannes.
“Crys!” Johannes cried. “At last. Where are you? Are you all right? We’ve been so worried.”
“I’m okay now…I’m at the police station in Giyani, but I’m being released. I need you to do me a favor, please. I can’t come back to Tshukudu. Can you meet me in Phalaborwa in three hours? I’ll explain everything when I see you. Can you suggest a good hotel there? And can you please bring all my stuff from the chalet? I hope that’s okay.”
“The Bushveld Hotel is fine. I’ll make a booking, and I’ll stay over too. It’s too far to go there and back today. And I need to make sure you’re safe.”
Crys smiled at his concern as she rang off.
She turned back to Mabula. “So, you’ll have heard—I can’t go back to Tshukudu or use their vehicle. The Portuguese know I was staying there, so that’s the first place they’ll look, if you don’t catch them. Is there a car rental in town?”
Mabula took a scrap of paper and wrote down a name and location. “Where will you go?”
Crys hadn’t thought that far. She just wanted to get away from Pockface and Mabula. “As you said, I have my story to write. Maybe I’ll head back to Pretoria. I still need to talk to the minister.”
Mabula nodded. “Chikosi has the keys to the Land Rover. He can take it back.”
“And me? Can I really go?” Crys asked. She could hardly believe it.
“Yes. But don’t forget to contact me—every day. I will find out what really happened out there, and if you’re involved…” He widened his eyes and leaned back. Then, with a flick of his hand dismissed her.
Crys stood up. “Please let me know if you learn anything about Michael.”
He nodded without a word.
She left his office, wondering what had caused his change of attitude. He’d been abrupt, but almost friendly. Could it be the connection with Michael? It was all so complicated.
Changes like that made her nervous.
* * *
As she walked out of the police station, she saw the Land Rover parked on the opposite side of the street. Bongani was leaning against the side, waiting for her. He looked as exhausted as she felt.
“Crys,” he said, spotting her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, the doctor fixed my finger. It was dislocated, not broken, and he’s given me painkillers. And you?”
“Just a few bruises. I’ll be okay.”
“Bongani, Mabula has a note from Michael. It says he’s being held prisoner, but they have no idea where. They need to follow his trail. You need to tell them what you told me about the connection with the white men and the white pickup. His life’s at stake now.”
Bongani’s eyes widened. He shook his head and for a moment he didn’t reply. “I can’t do that, Crys. It will get back to the poachers that I identified them to the police. They’ll go after my family. And they can link me to the plane. And the money. I’ll never get away from Mabula…”
Crys was shaking her head. “I’ve worked it all out, Bongani. Instead of telling Mabula that you got the information for Michael, just tell Mabula that Michael told you that he was trying to trace the men and that he had a contact in your village. Say that he asked you if you knew the man and you told him you didn’t. Then you’re in the clear but the police have the information they have to have.”
Bongani’s face fell. “It won’t work Crys. They’ll know the information came from me…”
“Tell Mabula to be careful nothing about you comes out. He can protect you then.”
“Protect me? You’re mad. He’s a skelm, that one. Don’t trust him. He knows there must be money and wants it for himself. He’ll force me to tell—”
“Maybe we’re wrong about Mabula. Maybe he is honest. After all, he’s let us go. Maybe now we should just tell him about the money and get it all over with.”
Bongani shook his head firmly. “No. I know the police here. None of them are honest.”
Crys thought for a moment. The money was one thing, but Michael’s life was quite another.
“I’m sorry Bongani. These men will kill Michael. I know it. We must find him first. If you won’t tell Mabula, I have to. But it will look much better if you do it.”
Bongani frowned; his mouth was set. Suddenly Crys remembered him manhandling Ho and their argument about the money. She took a step back from him.
But when he spoke, he sounded resigned, not aggressive. “All right. I’ll do what you said. Will you wait for me here? Then we can get back to Tshukudu and tell the Malans what happened.”
Crys shook her head. “I don’t think either of us should go back there right now. The police haven’t caught the Portuguese thugs yet, and they know we’re from there. Take the Land Rover and park it somewhere out of sight, and then lay low for a few days. I’m going to meet Johannes in Phalaborwa, and I’ll explain to him why you’re not going back yet.”
He lowered his voice. “What about the money?”
She watched his face carefully as she said, “I’ll tell the Malans about it. Then it’s not our problem anymore.”
He nodded. “Maybe that’s best.” Again, he sounded resigned.
She wondered if he was giving in too easily?
Crys dug around in a trouser pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, balling it in her hand so prying eyes wouldn’t see. “Take this,” she said handing it to him. “I don’t have much left and will need the rest.”
Bongani nodded, and quickly put it in his own pocket. Then he looked at her with a sad smile. “Well, goodbye, Crys. I hope they find your friend.”
“Goodbye, Bongani…We’ve shared a lot, haven’t we?”
“We have, Crys, yes.” He turned away and headed back into the police station, his shoulders slumped.
Crys hoped they would meet again. He’d become a friend.
Even if he did help poachers.
* * *
“You again,” Mabula said, looking up from his desk as Bongani was brought into his office. “What do you want now?”
“Crys told me you need information on Davidson. I have something.”
Mabula’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. This was a new development. Chikosi actually volunteering information. He bit back a sarcastic response to that effect and waited.
“He spoke to me at Tshukudu. He said he was trying to get in contact with some white men involved in the rhino-horn smuggling. He said they drove a white bakkie. He wanted to meet them.” He paused. “And when the Portuguese men grabbed us last night, they were driving a white bakkie. Maybe it’s the same men… Mr. Davidson asked me if I knew anything about them.”
So, it was Chikosi that Nguyen had heard this from, Mabula thought. No doubt she’d told him to come back with this story.
“And did you?” he asked.
Bongani hesitated. “No, I know nothing. I told him he must be very careful with people like that.” His eyes dropped from Mabula to his desk.
Mabula slammed his hand on his desk, making Bongani start. One of his untidy piles of folders collapsed. “I’m sick of being lied to, Chikosi! I know all about you. I know you help the poachers. I know you took the money from the plane. You told Davidson how to contact these people, didn’t you? You have the contacts to find them, don’t you?”
“I know nothing…”
“DON’T LIE TO ME! Who told you about the white men? About the bakkie?”
“It was Davidson…”
Mabula was sure that wasn’t true. Chikosi knew more. Probably Nguyen knew more. And he was sure both of them knew where the money for the smuggling was. He felt it all slipping through his fingers. Time was running out. Not only for Davidson.
“Let me tell you something, Chikosi. If Davidson dies and you have information you haven’t given me, you’re an accomplice to his murder. We’ll add that to your list of crimes. You’ll never get out of jail. Your family will starve. Think about it.”
“Can I go now?”
“Get out!”
When he’d left, Mabula carefully restacked his files, hands shaking with anger. Two of his men were dead. It looked like the Portuguese had got wind of what had happened at the house—they should have been back by now. The money was still missing. And everyone lied to him.
He slammed the desk again.
Chapter 23
It was late afternoon by the time Crys reached Phalaborwa. She bought some clothes, then checked in at the Bushveld Hotel, where she found Johannes had booked her in as promised. The receptionist took in her filthy clothes with a very dubious look—especially when she said she didn’t have her credit card with her, but she accepted the hundred-dollar bill.
As soon as she reached her room, she called reception and asked to be connected to Johannes’s room. He answered immediately.
She gave him her room number, and they agreed to meet in half an hour. She wanted a long shower first, to wash away the past few days. As she stood under the hot water feeling her muscles soften and stretch, she knew that it would take a lot more, and take a lot longer, to get rid of the memories of what she’d exp
erienced.
By the time she heard a knock on the door, Crys felt a little better. She still ached all over, but she was clean and safe…for the moment. She opened the door and was surprised to see both Johannes and his father standing there.
“Come on in,” she said, with a smile.
“We’ve spent the last few days trying to find you,” Johannes said, dumping her suitcase on the bed. “We’ve been really worried.”
“Let’s order some drinks,” Crys said. “How are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thanks. I was discharged after two days but was still pretty sick for the rest of the week. I’m only just up and about. But what about you, Crys? You look like you’ve been in the wars.” He pointed at her bandaged hand.
“A lot has happened since you left camp, Johannes. It’s a long story…” She paused, thinking about how to start. “And there’s stuff you need to know, too.”
“You’ve scared the shit out of us,” Anton said sternly. “We didn’t know what had happened to you.” Crys felt like she was being told off.
“There is some good news,” she said, changing the subject. “At least, I hope it’s good. Michael Davidson is alive. The police found a note from him, asking for help. They don’t know where he is, though.”
“That is good news!” Johannes said. “When someone disappears for—what is it? Four weeks now since he came back from Mozambique?—that’s usually the end of them.”
“My guess is that he’s being held by the same thugs who came after me and Bongani.”
That produced a spate of questions, and Crys realized she’d have to start at the beginning. Once the drinks had been delivered, they all settled down on the balcony overlooking a small garden, and she told them the whole long story—starting from when Bongani woke her with the news of the plane crash. As she spoke, she couldn’t quite believe all this had happened to her in such a short time. Her reporter’s brain kicked in—it was as though she was describing events in which someone else had been involved.
When she got to capturing Ho, Anton interrupted. “This man, did he have anything with him? I mean…there must have been some point to the plane trying to land there in the middle of the night.”
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