Something about the way he asked the question seemed odd. This was almost exactly the same as Mabula’s first reaction. Although she had been intending to, Crys’s instincts told her not to mention the money to the Malans after all. And by now she’d learned to take her instincts seriously.
She shook her head, keeping her face expressionless. “Nothing.”
She waited for him to press her further, but he didn’t, so she took up the story from when Ho had tried to hijack them and finished when Mabula had let her go earlier in the day. She said nothing about Bongani’s involvement in the smuggling, so with that and keeping the briefcase of money secret, she was lying yet again. She didn’t like it—these men had been good to her. But what could she do?
“There is one other thing,” she said, after she’d answered their numerous questions. “When I was being held captive this morning…” She hesitated. “It seems so long ago. Anyway, I overheard part of a conversation between the Portuguese man who was in charge—I call him Pockface—and whoever was on the other end of the line. I know the other person wasn’t Portuguese because Pockface spoke in English.”
“What were they talking about?” Johannes asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think they were talking about a big operation that’s connected somehow with the man on that plane. He mentioned Sunday two weeks from today. And that he needed eight men and more money. And when he mentioned money, he said ‘same.’ Mabula believed there was money on the plane, but he couldn’t find it. I’m sure he held us at the police station for so long because he thought we knew something about it. Maybe Pockface wanted that same amount of money again.”
“So that means there was money on the plane,” Anton said a little too hastily, she thought. “In that case, what happened to it?”
She studied his face before replying. Once more she’d need to be careful.
“Well, Pockface certainly believed that. Maybe Ho buried it somewhere…” She turned her mouth down and shrugged, feigning ignorance.
“From what you say Ho was in pretty bad shape,” said Anton. “So, he can’t have hidden it that well. Most probably it was to finance the operation. Likely they were going to buy some rhino horns from the poachers. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes. He repeated the word ‘three’ a couple of times.”
“Three?” Johannes asked.
She nodded. “I thought maybe they could be after three rhino-horn stockpiles or something like that.”
“It’s probably something in Mozambique, like bribing three officials or buying three consignments of horns,” Anton said shaking his head and flicking his hand dismissively. “Anyway, it has nothing to do with us, so we’ve nothing to worry about.” He stood up, seeming keen to go. “I’m sure you need a good night’s sleep. See you in the morning.”
After they’d left, Crys thought about the conversation and was puzzled by Anton’s seeming lack of interest in what she’d overheard. She wasn’t convinced by his performance.
And why would he think that it would take eight men to bribe three officials or buy three consignments of horns?
* * *
Crys was glad to have her cell phone and computer back, and she spent the evening responding to messages and sending emails. There was one text message from Sara Goldsmith asking how things were going, pointing out that she hadn’t had an update for some time and that the deadline was getting nearer. After a little thought, Crys decided she should call Sara to report on everything that had happened.
“Crys! I was starting to get worried about you,” Sara said.
“I’m sorry, Sara. It’s a very long story, but I’ll try to give you the brief version.”
Even that brief version took twenty minutes, not least because of Sara’s questions and exclamations of horror and disbelief. But at last Crys could get to the point of the call.
“Sara, I’m not really sure what I should do now. If Michael is somewhere around here, I’d like to go on looking for him, but I’m not sure what I can really do. And I’ve completed what I wanted to achieve here as far as the rhino article is concerned.”
She was taken aback by Sara’s immediate and adamant reply.
“No way do you go on looking for him! We had this out before. You aren’t qualified to rescue him; the police are and they’re on the job at last. You’ve absolutely done what you can. And we need that article. Work on that. You should follow up in Pretoria too. Didn’t you have an appointment with the minister scheduled?”
Crys had forgotten all about that.
“Actually, I would be more comfortable if you didn’t stay in South Africa much longer. These maniacs are still after you, for God’s sake! There’s a CITES meeting coming up too…maybe you should go to Geneva. And you need to get a feel for the trade in Vietnam yourself…” Sara seemed to be falling over herself to get Crys out of South Africa.
Geneva. Vietnam. It was very tempting. But Michael would need her support if he was found. When he was found, she corrected herself.
“Sara, thank you for your concern and, yes, I would like to follow up with CITES and in Vietnam. But at least for now I think I should stay in South Africa. I’ll go up to Pretoria tomorrow. I think I should get out of this area, but I can come back at once when they find Michael. Would that be okay?”
“That’s fine. As long as you promise me that you’ll get away from where these Portuguese thugs are operating and not try to rescue Michael yourself. Otherwise, our arrangement is over. I’m not having two of my journalists in danger.”
Crys gave her word, feeling guilty that she was so relieved to be getting away from this area. She’d had enough of danger in South Africa. If there was any way she could help Michael, she’d do it like a shot, whatever the risk. But with the police actively working on it, she had to admit that she’d probably just be in the way.
She thanked Sara and disconnected. She’d fly to Pretoria as soon as she could.
* * *
The next morning, Crys managed to find a seat on the second of two afternoon flights to Johannesburg. It meant hanging around for about five hours, so she took the opportunity to drive into Kruger National Park before she returned her rental car.
It was a good decision. Mabula had told her that morning that the police hadn’t caught the Portuguese—they’d never returned to the house. She was immediately reminded of Sara’s warning, and worried that Pockface would come looking for her in Phalaborwa since it was the closest airport to Giyani. She figured going into Kruger would keep her invisible. And, driving around by herself would be very therapeutic. She could just enjoy what the iconic game preserve had to offer. No pressure for once.
It ended up even better than she expected. The entrance gate was just on the outskirts of the town. She stopped and bought a day pass and even a couple of small souvenirs—beautifully carved salad servers in an almost black wood and a couple of matching miniature rhinos. Within a mile of the gate, she saw a small herd of elephants feeding on the mopane trees. Then she followed a side road to a waterhole where you could walk to a blind to view the animals. While she was there impalas, kudu, and zebras came down to drink.
As she drove on she came to a group of giraffes feeding on acacia trees, and was particularly intrigued by how they took leaves off between the thorns with their long tongues. She closed down the part of her mind that was dealing with the traumatic events of the past few days and simply observed. Best of all was a pack of wild dogs, something she’d never seen before, except on television. All had different markings, splotches of brown, white, yellow, and black, but they all shared white tips to their tails.
What beautiful animals, she thought. Perhaps her karma was changing for the better.
Eventually, Crys headed back to the airport and returned the car. She checked in, keeping a lookout for anything unusual, but the crowd of tourists heading back to Johannesburg mad
e her feel pretty safe.
When the plane took off, she relaxed a little, and as it climbed over the Drakensberg escarpment, which seemed to rise almost vertically from the lowveld plain, a great jagged wall of grays and greens, she finally allowed herself to think about what had happened over the past week.
She closed her eyes and repeated a silent mantra: Úm ma ni bát ni hồng…
When she opened her eyes, she knew the way forward. It was time to get back to her writing. Whatever Pockface was up to was not her problem. But she’d keep close tabs on what the police were doing to find Michael. Perhaps she could even put on a bit of pressure in Pretoria.
She thought through her priorities. Getting a handle on her professional work made her feel safe and in control. The first item was to write the second article for the Duluth newspaper. It was going to be a sizzler. Second, she still needed to meet the minister in Pretoria. Then she’d be able to write the South African section of the article. After that, it would depend on Michael.
As the plane started its descent, she closed her eyes and rested. Once in the terminal, she picked up her suitcase and walked through the automatic doors. A quick walk to the Gautrain station, and she’d be in Pretoria in less than half an hour.
But just as Crys was about to go up the escalator, someone grabbed her arm.
“No noise,” said a male voice with a thick accent. “You come.”
She swung around and saw the pockmarked face close to hers. She was so shocked, she screamed and managed to jerk herself loose.
“Help! Help me!”
She dropped her suitcase and started to run, but he grabbed her again.
She swung her briefcase at him, hitting him in the face.
“Help!” she screamed again and ran up the escalator, a few steps ahead of him. Halfway up was a man with a cart laden with suitcases. She pushed past him, grabbed the top case, and threw it at Pockface, who was only a couple of yards behind. She turned and fled up the steps, still screaming for help.
When she reached the top, Crys glanced back. Pockface was wrestling with the man with the cart. Then he broke loose and started after her again. She sprinted in the direction of the Gautrain, trying to spot some security personnel.
Then, out of nowhere, two policemen appeared and grabbed Pockface as he reached the top of the escalator.
Crys didn’t stop.
Fuck! she thought. How did he find me?
She kept running, awash with adrenalin, but her body failing as the trials of the past few days caught up with her.
Her mind was exhausted too. She’d had enough, and she knew now what she had to do. She forced herself to run on until she reached International Departures. There she scanned the departure board—Lufthansa was the next international flight out.
She looked around for the desk, pulling out her cash. She still had enough for a ticket. She didn’t care about her suitcase; it could stay in South Africa. Most important was that she had her briefcase with her notes, camera, and computer.
There were still free seats, and she was able to get through security and immigration in record time. Once she was through, she called the Giyani police station and asked for Mabula. He wasn’t there so she left a message for him. Then she chose a seat with a wall behind it and people around her, keeping a look out in case Pockface had escaped and was on her trail.
Fuck Pockface, she thought. Fuck Mabula. I’m getting out of the fucking country.
Part 3
Geneva, Switzerland
Chapter 24
As the plane descended toward Geneva, Crys stared down at the gorgeous city, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and hugging the edge of the long, silvery lake. She let out a long sigh of relief.
She thanked God she was out of South Africa.
This was a far cry from the heat, humidity, and danger she’d just left. As much as she loved the wilderness, there was something very comforting about arriving at this ancient and conservative European city.
She bought some warm clothes at the airport, then headed directly to the reasonably priced hotel she’d chosen during her layover in Frankfurt that was near downtown and the Rhône River. She’d managed to sleep quite well on the plane, so, once she’d checked in, she was planning to get to work on her phone, setting up appointments for the next few days.
She had just had a shower and was thinking about what to do about the suitcase she’d left in South Africa, when her phone rang. It was Mabula, and he wasn’t happy when she told him where she was.
“I told you not to leave the country without my permission!” he said angrily.
“Pockface was waiting for me in Johannesburg. If it wasn’t for two policemen who grabbed him, who knows where I’d be. I was in danger in South Africa, so I took the first flight out. I had no choice, Colonel.”
There was no response.
“Did you get my message?” she asked. “Did you arrest him?”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” he said more calmly. “By the time I contacted the airport police, they’d let him go with a warning. He said it was just a domestic argument.”
“So, he’s still looking for me. Leaving the country was clearly the right decision, don’t you think?” She couldn’t keep the patronizing tone out of her voice. “And I did try to speak to you.”
Again Mabula didn’t reply.
“Have you made any progress finding my friend Michael?” she asked.
“We searched the house where you were held from top to bottom. There was no sign of Davidson. That puzzles me. I would’ve thought they’d have taken you to the same place they were holding him. It seems as though they must have several locations.”
Crys sat down on the bed, despondent. “And what about the note?
“I’ve got my men going house to house around the area where the note was found. They’re showing everyone his photograph, asking if they’ve seen him or other foreigners living in the area. It’s a predominantly black neighborhood so we should pick up some information soon.”
“But nothing yet? It’s been several days.”
“We’re also trying to find the boy mentioned in the note. We think he may do deliveries. Perhaps that’s how Davidson made contact with him. But so far, no luck. And I have a man speaking to all our informers, trying to find out where the information came from that led Davidson to make contact with the men with the white bakkie. I’m still not convinced Chikosi is telling us everything he knows.”
Crys relaxed a bit. At least the police seemed to be working hard on finding Michael—certainly doing more than she could have done.
“Thanks, Colonel,” she said. “I hope you turn up something soon. Please let me know if you do. Have a good day.”
She lay back on the bed and wondered if she’d ever see Michael again.
* * *
After a few minutes, Crys sat up and started setting up appointments for the next day. Michael had planned to visit Geneva after his South African trip, so there were no notes for her to use. This would give her new and important material for the National Geographic story.
The Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora—known as CITES—had a big meeting coming up, but were able to arrange for her to see some people the next morning, including a brief meeting with the secretary general. And Rhino International, a high-profile NGO, said their director, Mr. Nigel Wood, could meet her after her meetings at CITES.
Making calls, arranging interviews, and jotting down notes while sitting safely at a hotel desk, Crys started to feel she was returning to normal. It was certainly better than fearing for her life in the bush, though her pain was a constant reminder of what had happened.
When she’d finished, she walked over to the window and enjoyed the view of a white peak of a mountain rising above the rooftops. She tried to focus on the present, but h
er mind insisted on taking her back to Africa. She kept returning to Pockface. What was all that money for? Who was he speaking to on the phone, and what were they planning? And why was he holding Michael?
So many questions and, as usual, few answers.
The Malans had no idea what the money was for, and Mabula had asked her for her opinion. On the spur of the moment, she’d suggested an operation involving elephants, and the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. That would explain the number of people Pockface wanted. Herds of elephants meant a lot of ivory. And the more she thought about that, the more upset she became. She’d seen gory pictures of the animals after they’d been shot and the tusks removed—blood and huge carcasses everywhere. Was that what Pockface was after? An elephant killing field?
She couldn’t let that happen and she was sure it wasn’t too late to do something. But it would take someone in conservation with a lot of clout. Someone who would be taken seriously. Crys realized that her best bet was the secretary general of CITES, whom she was seeing the next day. She didn’t like the idea of using her meeting—arranged around her National Geographic credentials—to try to enlist his support, but she realized that’s what she had to do, even if it meant violating protocol.
And then there was Michael—probably alive in South Africa—being looked for by the police. But who knew what shape he was in.
In truth, Crys really wanted to be there looking for him. But Sara was right, there was little she could do, and the article deadline was now only four weeks away. Crys gasped at the thought.
Only four weeks to write a National Geographic article!
* * *
The next morning, she was met at CITES by a charming Japanese gentleman who described himself as the head of Knowledge Management and Outreach services and, by the time he’d shown her around, she was lugging enough documentation to keep her busy for a week.
The secretary general was her final stop. Her guide introduced them, bowed slightly, and left the office to return to his real job.
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