Prey

by L. A. Larkin

‘Try changing the booking into my name, Olivia Wolfe,’ she suggests.

  ‘Olivia, you can’t do this alone.’

  ‘Just bear with me, Dan. I want to see if I’m blocked too.’

  ‘Can you give me a few minutes?’ Jacobus disappears into a back room.

  ‘I’ll get Tumi to come back.’ Casburn makes the call.

  Wolfe goes outside to a small courtyard with benches under thatched cover. She sits in the shade and uses WhatsApp again to contact Butcher. She wants to know he’s all right. He tells her they’re on their way to Wales.

  ‘Want to hear some good news?’ Butcher says. ‘We’ve been monitoring Blunt’s sugar cane company. Jwala set up some alerts. One came up. A shipment of uncut sugar cane left the Port of Maputo, Mozambique, this morning, on container ship, Thanh Dat 01, headed for Saigon Port.’

  ‘Vietnam? Is Blunt’s name on the paperwork?’

  ‘It is. Here’s where it gets interesting. One extra container was loaded onto the ship that’s not recorded in the documents.’

  ‘This could be how they get the horn into Vietnam. Any idea when the shipment reaches Saigon?’

  ‘In six weeks.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Dan,’ Wolfe says. ‘See if there’s a way to get those containers searched.’

  Through the window she sees Casburn beckoning her.

  ‘I have to go now, Jerry. And thank you for everything.’

  ‘Stay safe.’

  Back inside the helicopter company’s reception area, Casburn does not look happy.

  ‘You’re blocked from entering Zimbabwe too,’ he says. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to take the overland route. And that’ll take a bit of planning.’

  ‘At least I have some good news,’ Wolfe says.

  72

  Hannah points at a map on her computer screen. Almost the entire length of South Africa’s Kruger National Park, running north to south, borders Mozambique. Only the park’s northern end borders Zimbabwe.

  It’s early evening. Wolfe and Casburn are back at Nokuthula. Dirty plates are piled up in the kitchen sink. The hearty meal of boerewors – thick South African sausages – bread rolls and salad, has rejuvenated everyone.

  Tumi shakes his head. ‘That section of the Kruger is well patrolled. And it’s dangerous. Last week a border jumper was killed by a lion. The park is full of wild animals that hunt at night. You will be easy prey.’

  Hannah looks at Wolfe. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, Olivia. Even if you do manage to cross into Zimbabwe on foot, the border patrol tends to shoot first and ask questions later.’

  ‘A key player in the syndicate is arriving in Zimbabwe tomorrow morning, so we have to try,’ Wolfe says. ‘It might be the only way to find out who’s behind Pieter’s murder.’

  Hannah takes a deep breath. ‘Then your best bet is the Beitbridge border crossing. Tens of thousands use it legally, but it’s also used for illegal crossings. Our poaching patrol guys all come from Zimbabwe. Legally. Dad organised their visas. But they all know people who’ve got into South Africa illegally at Beitbridge.’

  Hannah zooms in on the map and traces a route which bypasses the official border post. ‘You’re best off crossing in the small hours of the morning, when the patrols are tired and bored. Your difficulty will be the road that runs parallel to the fence because it’s patrolled. Take a look at this.’

  She opens up a recent article in the online newspaper The Citizen, and points at a photo of border jumpers at the Beitbridge border. It shows a woman and two men trying to squeeze through a gap in a fence of thick wooden planks which must be seven or eight feet tall. ‘Somebody sawed a hole through the wood, so they can avoid the electric fence at the top.’

  ‘Impisi cut the hole,’ says Tumi. ‘They make border jumpers pay them to use it. They’re thieves, man. Can’t be trusted.’

  Casburn shakes his head. ‘I’d rather take my chances through the Kruger.’

  ‘I will take you,’ says Tumi. ‘I worked in Kruger Park. I will guide you.’

  ‘Tumi, no,’ says Hannah. ‘It’s too risky. And I need you here. I can’t run this place without you.’

  So focused have they all been on the monitor, they haven’t noticed Henry Clarke walk into the house, until he runs the tap to wash the grease off his hands.

  ‘No need, I’ll fly you,’ Clarke says, lathering up his hands. ‘Finally got the chopper working. Somebody cut the fuel line.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Hannah asks, clearly shocked.

  ‘Ja. The cut is clean. Somebody wants my chopper disabled.’

  Hannah shakes her head. ‘The people here are loyal. They love this reserve as much as I do. They would never do that.’

  ‘I know what I saw, Hannah,’ says Clarke, drying his hands. ‘But it’s all fixed now. I’ll sleep in the chopper tonight. I’m not going to let some bastard sabotage it again.’

  ‘You’d really fly us to Zimbabwe?’ Wolfe asks. ‘We don’t have visas. It’s illegal.’

  ‘And what they are doing to Hannah’s rhinos is illegal. I can get you in and out without raising alarm bells.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Wolfe says. She looks at Casburn. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in,’ says Casburn.

  ‘When can we leave?’ Wolfe asks Clarke.

  ‘Dawn. It’s a difficult flight. I need some daylight.’

  73

  It’s one in the morning. Despite the cold night and her light nightwear, Wolfe has kicked off the heavy blankets. She can’t sleep. Next door, Hannah is also restless, the floorboards creaking as she moves about. The poor woman may never sleep soundly again, given what she now knows about her father’s death. In the bed next to her, Casburn is dead to the world. He lies on his stomach, his head facing away from her, his right hand under the pillow where his pistol lies.

  A floorboard in Hannah’s bedroom creeks. She’s pacing again.

  An exterior security light flicks on. Wolfe sits up and grabs the rifle lying against the bedside table. Moments later, through the thin curtains, she sees the silhouette of an ostrich’s broomstick neck and head. She breathes a sigh of relief. She glances at Casburn, who hasn’t moved. Asleep, his angular features are softened. He, too, has kicked off the bedclothes, exposing his bare upper body.

  Bored with her insomnia, Wolfe gets up and feels her way to the bedroom door. She’ll make herself some tea and catch up on emails. She creeps past Casburn’s bed, then stops. A tattoo on his right shoulder blade. It looks like a woman’s face, neck and shoulders. Wolfe moves closer. Shoulder length hair. Looking over one shoulder, smiling. Alluring. No name. No inscription. Who is she?

  The exterior security light goes off and the room is plunged into blackness. She turns away from Casburn and manages to find the door.

  ‘She was my wife.’

  Wolfe blanches. Casburn was asleep, wasn’t he? She turns back and can just make out the dark outline of him in bed. He hasn’t moved so much as an inch.

  ‘She was beautiful,’ says Wolfe.

  ‘Still is. Now get some sleep.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’ She opens the door.

  ‘Your blackmailer,’ says Casburn. ‘I’ve heard his accent before.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Vietnam. But educated in England.’

  ‘What were you doing in Vietnam?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  74

  Seated at Hannah’s dining table, Wolfe is avoiding reading Cohen’s email. The subject isn’t exactly inviting: You’ve gone too far this time.

  Instead, she’s supergluing the comb-knife Butcher gave her to the inside of one of her fourteen-inch-high lace-up boots. The handle sits just below the top of the right boot and the sheath, above her outer ankle. Well-hidden but easy to get at. The sheath, disguised as a comb, won’t be very comfortable against her leg, so she’ll wear an extra pair of socks. The three-inch blade is enough to cause some serious pain and, if it hits the right organ, could take an attacker down. Their im
minent trip through the Kruger and into Zimbabwe is fraught with danger. But this extra precaution has more to do with a feeling she can’t shake – a feeling she’s being watched. Is Samuel close by?

  Satisfied with her handiwork, Wolfe can’t put it off any longer. She opens Cohen’s email.

  Olivia,

  Far be it from me to jeopardise a police investigation, but your job is not to solve crime. That is Casburn’s. This paper can barely afford to fund your trip let alone for you to play detective. Times are tough, and budgets are tight. If you continue to work for Casburn, he can pay for your time.

  I have contacted a friend on South Africa’s Herald and brokered a joint exclusive re the four butchered victims, with a focus on Pieter Venter. He is poised to take over the story. I need to know whether you work for me or the Met by return email. If I haven’t heard from you by tomorrow 9am London time, I will publish.

  Yours, Moz Cohen

  Wolfe leans back in her chair. Cohen’s actions are understandable. The story is dynamite. Her story. But she’s given Casburn her word. And she has to get justice for Mike’s family. If The Post and the Herald publish, the syndicate could go to ground. She just needs more time. Will he listen to her?

  Moz, please. This is about more than four murders. It’s about exposing a criminal syndicate and its leader. We’re almost there. Just a few more days?

  She sends her email.

  A door opens and Hannah walks in, fully dressed, her dogs close at heel. She carries a rifle.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Wolfe says.

  ‘You didn’t. I can’t stop thinking about Dad. It’s driving me insane. I’m going out,’ Hannah says.

  ‘That’s a bad idea, Hannah. We don’t know where your dad’s killer is. It’s safer to stay here.’

  ‘Can’t,’ Hannah replies. ‘Night patrol. I’m on the one to four shift. Tumi will clock off soon.’

  ‘Can’t somebody else do it? Someone from poaching patrol?’

  ‘They can only cover so much in one night. No, I have to do it.’

  Hannah tells the dogs to stay and heads for the door. They sit and look up at her with disappointed eyes.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ says Wolfe. ‘Give me a minute to dress.’

  ‘Bring your rifle. I’ll lend you a warm coat. Your jacket won’t be enough.’

  As Wolfe dresses in her warmest clothes, she considers waking Casburn to tell him where she’s going, then thinks better of it. She has never seen him so strung out. Let him sleep. They’ll be back by four and he’ll be none the wiser.

  75

  The Land Rover’s headlights are on high beam. Beyond the reach of the beam is pitch black. Wolfe is glad for the quilted coat Hannah lent her, as the dashboard tells her it’s seven degrees Celsius. Hannah wears a khaki, padded coat with leather collar. The rifles sit in the footwell next to Wolfe, safety catches on.

  ‘Why bring the backpack?’ Hannah asks, flicking a look at the bag forcing Wolfe forward a few inches in her seat.

  ‘Comes with me everywhere. Saved my life many a times.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It has an ESAPI ballistic plate down the back. Protection from bullets and knives. And I’ve got a few useful gadgets to help me stay safe.’

  ‘I’ve often wondered about journalists. Is it dangerous work?’

  ‘Can be. If you’re doing it right,’ Wolfe raises a corner of her mouth in a half smile.

  Hannah hands her a small white remote control. She nods at it. ‘It controls the searchlight on the roof. Scan from side to side. A foot or two off the ground. We’re looking for eyes reflected in the beam.’

  Wolfe fiddles with the remote and quickly gets the hang of it. She swings it to the left and it lights up the grassy bushveld.

  ‘Animal eyes?’

  ‘Dogs. Poachers use starved dogs. Their eyes reflect the light and show up like white discs in the darkness. If we see them, we have to move fast. If the poachers hear us coming, they cover the dogs’ eyes and hide until we pass by.’

  ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘Section three,’ says Hannah. ‘Tumi reported a gunshot, near four of our rhinos. I want to check on them,’

  Wolfe swings the searchlight to the right.

  Hannah continues. ‘It’s almost a full moon tonight. That’s bad for us. Poachers don’t even need torches to see.’

  ‘You normally do these patrols alone?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘And if we find poachers?’

  ‘I radio in, get backup. Fire some warning shots.’

  ‘And do they run?’

  ‘These days? No. The horn is too valuable.’

  ‘Do you fire at them?’

  ‘It’s illegal, even if they’re killing our animals. We can only fire in self-defence, and the problem is that it’s their word against ours.’

  ‘I thought you said these guys have AK-47s? They’re not likely to miss.’

  ‘That’s why so many rangers die doing this job.’

  Wolfe swings the searchlight back across the front of the bakkie and over to the left.

  ‘What’s that?’ Numerous small lights.

  ‘Tilt it lower.’ Hannah halts the vehicle and Wolfe adjusts the searchlight’s angle.

  At first Wolfe thinks she’s looking at large dogs.

  ‘Hyenas,’ Hannah says.

  Despite the engine’s rumble and the bright light, the animals amble away calmly.

  Hannah accelerates. ‘The rhinos should be just over this ridge.’

  ‘If nothing changes,’ Wolfe asks, ‘how long before rhinos are extinct in South Africa?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘Ten?’

  ‘In the last ten years this country’s lost seven thousand one hundred rhinos to poachers. In another ten they’ll be gone, except for the ones in captivity or under armed guard. That’s no life for an animal that likes to roam and forage.’

  ‘So, what’s the answer?’ Wolfe asks. ‘Find a way to reduce demand?’

  ‘Ah. That’s hard to answer. Everyone has a different view. Conservation charities argue we need to change attitudes in the countries that import horn. But that means changing centuries-old beliefs in places like Vietnam and China.’

  ‘You mean believing rhino horn cures anything from headaches to erectile disfunction?’

  ‘Exactly. These myths persist because it’s cut with drugs like paracetamol or Viagra. The biggest problem is we’re up against a ticking clock. Even if we could convince ninety-nine per cent of people in Asia that rhino horn has no medicinal properties, demand from the one per cent left will still lead to the rhino’s extinction.’

  ‘I’ve heard that cutting the horn off or staining it a bright colour reduces the likelihood of poaching?’

  ‘It can. We’re going to have to de-horn our remaining rhinos. But it’s dangerous, for the rhinos as well as the vets. And costly. And even then, poachers sometimes still kill them for the part of the horn left inside their skull.’

  ‘And staining the horn?’

  ‘Makes it harder to sell as a complete horn, but it can still be sold for powder. So, I’m not convinced staining the horn is the answer. I wish it were, believe me.’

  ‘Can the South African Government do more?’

  ‘Yes, they should, because tourism is one of our biggest income earners, and tourists come to see the wildlife. But education and health desperately need funding too. And the syndicates spread a lot of money around.’ Hannah takes her eyes off the bumpy road for a few seconds, glancing at Wolfe. ‘Private reserves like ours don’t get funding. And unless something changes soon, we may have to close down.’

  ‘What will happen to your rhinos if you do?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it. Nobody wants to take them. The cost of protecting them is too high.’

  ‘There has to be a solution, surely?’

  ‘In my mind, there is. But it’s not popular.’

  Hannah changes down a
gear as the old vehicle struggles up the steepening ridge.

  ‘You think the international trade in rhino horn should be legalised?’ Wolfe guesses.

  ‘I do and not because I want to get rich, but because I want to save my rhinos. The ban was put in place forty-three years ago. Over that period poaching has sky-rocketed, and horn has become the most valuable commodity in the world. It was supposed to make it harder for poachers to find buyers. It has failed miserably. All it has done is driven the trade underground, and the only people benefiting are the criminals driving the illegal trade.’

  ‘That’s a controversial stance, Hannah. I imagine your view isn’t popular with conservation charities.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But it’s the same argument for legalising the drugs trade. Legalise the trade in horn and we take the control away from criminals. With a legal market, the money made from their sale can be ploughed back into protecting rhinos. Then conservation will become an attractive job, because people can make a living out of it.’

  ‘Is that what your father believed?’

  ‘Yes. He was going to speak at the next GROWT convention and argue for lifting the ban.’

  They reach the top of the ridge, gears grinding. Wolfe swings the searchlight round.

  The windscreen shatters. Hannah shrieks. Glass explodes inward. In shock, Hannah takes her foot off the accelerator. The old Land Rover slows.

  ‘Drive!’ Wolfe yells. ‘Go!’

  76

  Hannah’s door is wrenched open. She is grabbed by her coat. Clinging to the steering wheel she tries to kick her assailant. The man has no face, just two eyes and a mouth, the black balaclava a blur against the night.

  Wolfe grabs her rifle. The Swedish Mauser is long and unwieldy in the confined cabin, and precious seconds are lost. She clicks off the safety and aims. He has Hannah by her ankles and drags her from the cabin. She lands with a back-breaking thud. He leans over her. Wolfe fires, the recoil smashing into her shoulder, the sound battering her eardrums.