by Tony Park
At last they came to the other side of the park, on the Save River. They stopped briefly at a thatch-roofed hut where a Zimbabwe Parks and Wildlife ranger checked their entry paperwork. The driver continued along the sand road and took a turn to the right. The riverbank fell away to the left, a sheer drop to the sandy bed below. Nia grabbed the metal side wall of the bakkie as the truck slewed around a tight turn to the left.
For a second she thought they might slide or roll over, but the driver gunned the engine and the momentum of the downhill run carried them through the sand and into the river. The first channel seemed quite deep and water fantailed on either side of them as he ploughed on. They came up onto the wide, sandy middle section of the bed and the driver revved the engine hard to maintain their momentum.
When they reached the channel on the other side of the river the surface underneath was studded with large rocks worn smooth by the water. The driver slowed so as not to damage his suspension. Nia saw birds on either side: a pair of tall, elegant black and white saddle-billed storks with yellow spots on their bills; a pied kingfisher which hovered above the river’s sparkling surface then dove straight down in search of a fish, spearing the water; and in the shallows a black crake, which was wading and making a loud honking call that belied its tiny size.
Clear of the river they climbed the other bank and took a dirt road for a few kilometres through bushland until they came to a turnoff, to the left, to Fish Eagle Lodge. The driver took them through the boom gate and then up a steep paved driveway to the main lodge, where he deposited them at the entrance. They offloaded themselves and their baggage, grateful to stretch their legs and put an end to their ‘African massage’, as bumpy roads were often called. Mike thanked the driver and Nia paid him with a folded wad of rand.
The quiet around them had a soothing effect on them all. As they approached the entrance to the main building, a young woman welcomed them to the lodge, introducing herself as Cassandra, the manager. Another woman handed around a platter of cold towels. Nia wiped her face and hands and the back of her neck.
‘Is David here?’ Mike asked Cassandra.
‘He’s coming now.’ She pointed ahead as she led them out onto the terrace that overlooked the Save River.
David Stowell was part owner and resident general manager of the lodge, Mike had told Nia. He had white hair and a bushy Father Christmas beard that contrasted with the dark mahogany of his mottled skin.
‘Mike!’
Mike introduced David to Nia and the teenagers. If David thought it odd that Mike had arrived with a rather bedraggled and multiracial entourage he gave no sign of it.
‘Welcome,’ he said.
Mike and David went into a huddle and Nia moved to the railing of the deck. Themba and Lerato, who carried the baby, joined her. Nia heard Mike asking David if he could use the lodge’s phone and the two went into the manager’s office.
‘Wow,’ Lerato said.
The river looked cool and inviting, but on the far side they could see three large crocodiles. The reptiles were a reminder, not that they needed it, that danger lurked even in a seeming paradise. A trail of round, crater-like holes pitted the sand beneath the river’s surface: the tracks of a hippo that had been active the night before, Nia imagined.
After a few minutes Mike broke from David and came to them. ‘There’s a self-catering camp here that’s vacant. We can stay there for now.’
‘For now?’ Themba asked.
‘We don’t know how long it will be safe for us to stay here,’ Mike said. ‘But we have planning to do.’
Cassandra came back to them. ‘I can get our camp attendant, Stanley, to take you to the camp now, if you like.’
Mike thanked her. ‘Themba, Lerato, please take the baby and go find a room – or rooms – that you’d like to stay in. I just need a minute with Nia.’
The youngsters left with Stanley, who helped carry their bags.
When they were alone, Mike turned to Nia. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘It is. Suzanne Fessey knows where we are.’
Nia felt a familiar shiver of dread rack her body. ‘How?’
‘David just told me that my ex-wife, Tracy, rang him, asking if I was here. David said no, but Tracy asked him to get me to call if I showed up. She said she was worried about me and that the police were looking for me.’
‘And did you call her?’ Nia asked.
Mike nodded. ‘Just now, from David’s office. I got a description of the female police officer who interviewed Tracy. It was Suzanne.’
‘My God, Mike, Tracy’s lucky to still be alive.’
‘I told her to get Debbie, my daughter, and to leave town. They’ve gone to stay with friends in Port Alfred. It’s not Tracy’s fault; she was just trying to help. However, she was suspicious enough of Suzanne, in hindsight, to try and tip me off.’
Nia slumped down onto one of the deckchairs and Mike lowered himself into the chair opposite her. ‘What do you think?’
Nia felt the sense of relaxation escape from her body, like she’d been punctured. ‘When are we going to stop running, Mike? Will we ever be truly safe anywhere?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Not while Suzanne Fessey is still on the loose and while the CIA is trying to track down both her and us. We’ve awoken a sleeping giant, Nia, running from the Americans. It won’t take them long to use every resource at their disposal – men, aircraft, satellites, drones – to find us. Our time is limited.’
‘What do you suggest?’ she asked.
‘What do you suggest? You track people for a living. I monitor vultures.’
Nia liked that he wanted her opinion, and she sensed it wasn’t for show or to curry favour. She thought about their situation. ‘Suzanne Fessey and her crew were prepared to destroy Boyd’s farmhouse with rocket-propelled grenades to get back her child, but that doesn’t reassure me that she cares for the baby’s safety.’
‘So,’ Mike followed her train of thought, ‘that would indicate she’s more interested in retrieving the microchip.’
‘What kind of mother thinks like that?’ Her question was rhetorical, so she carried on. ‘If the microchip number is a bank account, which seems likely, then she’s after the money. We could just give the child to her, or leave him somewhere where she could find him.’
Mike nodded, slowly. ‘We could. Do you want to do that?’
Nia thought about it. ‘She’s a criminal, a murderer, and she deserves to face justice, in South Africa and wherever else she’s committed her crimes. Also, even if she has feelings for her baby, what kind of life would we be condemning him to?’
‘My thoughts, too,’ Mike said.
‘The Americans are behaving almost as recklessly. Nobody cares about this child except us. Can we remove the microchip from the baby?’
‘Microchips are easy to implant,’ Mike said, ‘but they’re damned hard to remove. I looked into this with vultures. When I first heard about the technology I thought we could maybe re-use the chip if a bird died and we retrieved it. It turns out it’s a difficult procedure, even on a dead bird. The chips are hard to locate – they move around under the skin away from where they’re first inserted – and scar tissue forms around them where they come to rest, so it’s not as simple as, say, making a small incision. The baby would have to be anaesthetised and it would take a plastic surgeon to dig around and get it out and, more importantly, repair the damage done under the skin as well as stitching him back up.’
‘So, if Suzanne or the Americans get the baby, dead or alive, they’re going to be able to read what’s on the chip. We can’t give up, though,’ Nia said. ‘If Suzanne or the other terrorists get the information they could access the bank account and use it to fund some terrible attack, like maybe another 9–11.’
‘We could just hand the bab
y over to the Americans. I can call Jed Banks, and we can give ourselves over to them – with no guns this time,’ Mike said.
It was a tempting proposition, Nia thought. If the Americans had the baby then Suzanne would have no reason to come after them. Or would she? She might have already deduced that they had read the information on the chip.
Mike appeared to have had the same thought. ‘Suzanne would probably still try and get the information from us. Damn.’
‘Damn what?’ Nia asked.
‘If Suzanne checked Boyd’s operating theatre, and I’m sure she would have, then she would have seen that the microchip reader was lying around after I’d used it. I should have put it away.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ she said. ‘Suzanne’s outsmarted everyone so far.’
Mike leaned towards her, his elbows on his knees. ‘The interesting thing is that unless Suzanne is just a grieving mother trying to get her kid back – and her recklessness with his safety seems to contradict that – then she mustn’t know the numbers on the chip.’
‘That could mean she’s not in the loop,’ Nia reasoned, ‘or that this was something that only just recently happened. The puncture wound from where the chip was inserted hasn’t healed yet.’
‘Either way, she now needs the numbers.’
‘And we have them,’ Nia said. ‘Question is, what do we do with them?’
‘What do you think?’ Mike asked.
She thought it through. The idea she had in mind was crazy, could never work, but they had to turn the tables on Suzanne. ‘We go find the money.’
‘Go to Switzerland? Crazy,’ said Mike.
‘Listen to me. I fly to Switzerland, check out the bank, go there and find out what’s in the account. I’ve got the account number and what looks like the passcode number.’
‘Call the bank,’ Mike suggested. ‘See if they’ll tell you what’s in the account.’
Nia shook her head. ‘My friend Roger said that with these numbered accounts they don’t do electronic or telephone banking or give out details that way. Think about it, Mike, if Suzanne knows I’m in Switzerland she’ll know for sure we have the numbers and that it’s too late for her. Roger told me that these Swiss banks are cracking down on criminals using their services, so if I go there, access the account and tell them the money belongs to terrorists, they can call in the police. If Suzanne knows we’ve locked up the money then there’s no reason for her to keep chasing the kids and the baby, though I guess she’ll want her child back eventually as well.’
Mike stood, his fists clenched by his sides. ‘No, Nia. She might head to Switzerland herself if she knows you’ve gone there, and I won’t allow you to be bait for her to follow. You can’t just jump on a plane to Geneva!’
That made her mad. She got to her feet. ‘You won’t allow it? I know the numbers, I can do what I damn well want with them.’
‘I’ll go to Switzerland, then,’ he said.
She put her fists on her hips. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You need to stay here and look after these three kids of ours, that’s why not,’ she said.
‘Ours?’
She grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’ She changed the subject. ‘What do we do about the Americans?’
‘I share your misgivings about them, but I’d still rather Jed Banks found us than Suzanne.’
Nia nodded. ‘Lesser of two evils. But the Americans want the baby – and presumably the money – as much as Suzanne. We’re all still at risk. The money gives us leverage over all of them, and insurance.’
Mike continued to clench and unclench his fists by his side. ‘I still don’t like it, particularly if it draws them after you. I’d rather stash you and the kids somewhere else safe, maybe find a place in Harare, and go myself.’
‘Three reasons why it has to be me, Mike.’ She raised her thumb. ‘One, there is nowhere that’s really safe and at least you know the terrain here.’
She could see from the set of his mouth that he knew she was right.
‘Two,’ she raised her index finger, ‘I’ve got the cash to buy a standby ticket. I might even use my parents’ Amex card and go business class. Do you have that sort of money?’
He didn’t return her smile. ‘You know I don’t.’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to rub it in.’ She raised a third finger. ‘Three, I’ve got an Australian passport with me so I don’t need to organise a visa in advance. I’ve been to Switzerland a couple of times on holiday with my folks. I can find my way around. I’ll phone you from there and let you know how it’s going.’
‘You still need to get to Harare.’
‘I’ve thought of that. Cassandra,’ she called inside to the manager. The young woman came over to them. ‘Do people sometimes fly in and out of this place?’
‘Yes, we’ve got a light aircraft due in today.’ Cassandra checked her wristwatch. ‘It’s due any time now.’
‘Can I get on it?’
Cassandra seemed momentarily surprised. ‘Well, um, sure. It’ll be empty, so I’m sure we can find you a seat and work out a means of payment.’
Mike shook his head. ‘I don’t like this, Nia. You’ll have to use your real name and passport number to book your international flights. The Americans will be monitoring that kind of stuff. They’ll find you and they’ll be waiting for you when you fly to Europe via Johannesburg. You won’t get a direct flight from Harare to Switzerland.’
‘I’ve thought of that too,’ she said. ‘I know people who’ve flown into and out of Zimbabwe before. I can get a flight to Nairobi and go from there. The Americans may be able to track me, but I won’t make it easy for them by going via Joburg. Also, I’d like to see them try and pick me up in Switzerland without creating an international incident.’
‘No,’ Mike said.
Nia put her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. If Suzanne does show up here, as we think she will, then try to find a way to parley with her. Tell her we’ll give her the bloody numbers if she leaves Africa and guarantees your safety and that of the kids. I’ll leave Switzerland and she can take her chances with the bank and the cops there.’
‘It’s still crazy. Also, Suzanne doesn’t seem like the type to negotiate. She shoots first.’
Nia sighed. ‘This whole thing is mad, Mike. If we get access to her money we get ahead of her, really in front of her, for the first time.’
They were at a stalemate. The sound of vehicle engines revving to climb the steep driveway to the lodge made them both turn.
An open Land Cruiser game viewer carrying a party of eight tourists pulled up at reception. As the guests were greeted by Cassandra a double-cab Land Rover Defender arrived as well.
The occupants of the second vehicle walked in, and they were a very different breed from the tourists.
There were three white men and two black; all wore green military-style field uniforms that were mottled black with sweat under the arms and across their broad chests. Their clothes were also coloured with dust and dirt; all carried a few days’ worth of stubble and their hair was unwashed, spiked, matted. As they came closer Nia smelled them.
‘Nia,’ Mike said, gesturing to the man at the head of the phalanx, ‘meet Shane Castle and Tim Penquitt. They run the anti-poaching operation in this part of Zimbabwe.’
They all shook hands. Cassandra politely interrupted them. ‘Nia, if you want to get the flight out, then the vehicle that just brought the tourists can take you to the airstrip. The plane leaves in twenty minutes.’
‘Excuse me,’ Nia said to the new arrivals. She took Mike by the elbow.
‘Don’t do this,’ he said.
‘I have to, and you know it. Keep the kids safe, Mike. Trust me on this, and if you can’t, then it doesn’t matter. I’m my own person, I’m going.’
He put his hands on her sh
oulders and she felt small, but also safe, in his grip. ‘I think that’s one of the things I like about you.’
She took a deep breath. Her tough talk belied the fear that balled in her chest. She was worried that she was leaving him in grave danger. Nia looked up at him. ‘I like a few things about you, too.’
Mike kissed her and she wrapped her arms around him.
‘Be safe,’ he whispered in her ear.
Chapter 32
Mike, Shane Castle and Tim Penquitt walked the perimeter of the self-contained satellite camp that David had recently established about a kilometre away from the main lodge, deep in the bush.
They were preparing for a battle and, on reflection, Mike now felt better that Nia had left. At least she would be out of the line of fire when Suzanne showed up.
Shane and Tim were well known to Mike. Tim was the older of the two, around sixty, Mike reckoned, and he had a justifiably fearsome reputation as a former member of the Selous Scouts, an integrated black and white unit of the Rhodesian Army, before the country gained independence and became Zimbabwe. The scouts had specialised in pseudo operations, with African soldiers loyal to the government and white men covered in black makeup masquerading as nationalist guerrillas, ambushing and disrupting the genuine revolutionaries’ forces.
Shane stopped, rested the butt of his FN self-loading rifle on the ground and looked around him. ‘Ja, this’ll do,’ he said, his accent a mix of Australian and Zimbabwean. Shane, Mike knew, had been born in what was then known as Rhodesia, before his parents had moved the family across the Indian Ocean to Australia. Now in his forties, Shane had served with the Australian SAS, the Special Air Service, in Afghanistan, and as a hired gun in Iraq.
Tim was in charge of the anti-poaching operations in the Save Valley Conservancy, on the border of Gonarezhou National Park, and often operated on the Fish Eagle Lodge property as well. Shane was something of a military consultant and it spoke volumes for his experience and intelligence that Tim, a hardened veteran himself, accepted the outsider’s counsel. Jordan, Tim’s son, one of the three younger men in the team, had his own military pedigree, having served in the British Army’s Parachute Regiment in the bloody fighting in Afghanistan’s Helmand Province before returning home to Zimbabwe to take a position in what had become the family business – hunting poachers. The remaining members of the team, Mike knew, were brothers. Oscar and Sylvester Mpofu were like family to the Penquitt boys. Tim liked it that way; family would never betray each other and would never leave a member stranded or wounded on the field of battle. The younger members were with the three fugitive children.
