Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  “I will, Mma. I promise.”

  Joy and Kubu watched the felicitations with approval. Ilia, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic. She wasn’t receiving the attention she’d come to expect.

  After Kubu had hauled the cooler boxes into the kitchen, he retrieved a folding chair from the Land Rover—his parents only had five chairs, four of their own and one already loaned by Kubu. The six then sat down and chatted for a while, mainly about plans for the wedding. When the women went inside to prepare lunch, Wilmon beckoned Bongani to sit next to him. “I regret to say I have already forgotten your name.”

  Kubu glanced sharply at his father. This was unlike him. He was a man with a good memory, especially for people’s names.

  “Bongani Sibisi, Rra.”

  “Ah, yes.” Wilmon nodded. “Tell me about your family.” Kubu smiled. He knew that Wilmon would want to know all about Bongani’s heritage.

  For the next ten minutes or so, Bongani related how his father was dead, but his mother was alive and in good health. He told Wilmon about his grandparents, where they had come from, what they did, and how fortunate he’d been that they had lived in health to an old age.

  “My grandparents, especially my grandfathers, were very important in my life, Rra. When I grew up, my father spent most of the year in Lobatse. That is the only place he could find work. So when he was away, I spent many hours listening to my grandfathers’ stories. I was very lucky, because they had been to school and could read. It was they who helped me love to learn.”

  Wilmon listened carefully, nodding in appreciation for Bongani’s respect for his elders. When he had exhausted his questions, he slowly stood up. He turned to Bongani. “You will excuse us, please.” He beckoned to Kubu. “My son, please walk with me.”

  Kubu struggled out of his low chair, shrugged at Bongani, and helped his father down the stairs to the street. Bongani would have a chance to enjoy a few moments of peace, which Kubu was sure he needed.

  “My son, we need to talk about lobola for Pleasant. Her father and mother are both dead, and your mother and I are now like parents to her. We must negotiate a fine lobola. Her family will get many fine cows.” Kubu understood now why his father had summoned him away from the veranda. It would be improper to talk about lobola in front of the future groom.

  They turned the corner into another dusty street. Wilmon nodded his head at several neighbors who shouted greetings.

  “Father, you are right, as usual. But it isn’t for us to initiate the discussion, like you did with Joy’s family. Bongani’s family will decide who will negotiate for them. Then Pleasant will tell Bongani that you will be her father in the matter. They will then approach you for her hand.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder—a rare touch of affection between the two. “Pleasant is blessed to have you take her father’s place. You will have the respect of Bongani and his family.”

  They walked in silence for a few more minutes, and Kubu could see that his father was very proud.

  Lunch was a happy affair. Kubu noted with approval how Pleasant and Bongani paid a great deal of attention to each other, with frequent and affectionate touches. Joy and Amantle had already made progress in planning the wedding, which they had been told was to be in the spring—early October, in fact, so that the heat would be tolerable. Wilmon sat quietly, sometimes dozing, with Ilia content on his lap. Even Tumi behaved, sleeping quietly just inside the front door.

  That evening, after Pleasant and Bongani had made their way home, Kubu relaxed in a comfortable chair with a ten-year-old KWV brandy. Joy had finally got Tumi to sleep, and settled herself on Kubu’s lap with his arm around her shoulders. She took a sip of his brandy and wrinkled her nose as she always did.

  “I think they’ll be happy,” she said. “He’s a good man. She loves him for his mind and his character. That’s a good basis.”

  Kubu grunted. He knew that it was best not to get involved.

  “Pleasant told me that professors have what they call sabbaticals,” Joy continued. “Apparently they are paid holidays to places overseas. And Pleasant loves to travel.”

  “I think they actually work at other universities. It’s to continue their research. It isn’t really a holiday.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Joy, sounding unconvinced. “If you had a sabbatical, you would carry out research in the South African wine country.”

  Kubu laughed. “Yes, I probably would.” He turned his head and kissed her.

  “Hmm,” she said. “The brandy tastes better that way.”

  Kubu finished it, set the glass aside, and kissed her again.

  “Definitely better that way,” said Joy. She looked at him in her special way.

  “Let’s go to bed,” said Kubu.

  This time the flesh was willing too.

  Part IV

  It will strike us in the dark

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Kubu arrived early at his office on Monday with a bounce to his step. He greeted Edison with a wave and offered smiles all around. He helped himself to tea and settled in his office, half expecting the day to be made at once by news of Haake. But when his e-mail and office mail arrived, they offered only the usual tedium. Even that couldn’t spoil his mood, and he doggedly worked his way through it.

  By mid-morning it was done. Feeling hopeful, he called Lerako, but he had nothing to report. Somehow Haake still remained undetected after another two days. Kubu wondered if someone had tipped him off that the police were after him. Perhaps Ilse had managed to reach him on his cell phone. Was it possible that he was now on the run? Someone with his experience of the Kalahari could easily find places to slip through the border into South Africa.

  What he needed was someone who knew the Kalahari as well as Haake himself. Suddenly Kubu realized he knew someone exactly like that. He scrabbled in a drawer and found the piece of paper he’d used to jot down Khumanego’s numbers. He owes me a favor, he thought. Let’s see if I can collect. He tried the landline first, and it rang only a few times before Khumanego answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Khumanego? Hello, it’s Kubu.”

  “David! How are you? Good to hear from you. Did you catch Monzo’s killer?”

  “Well, the good news is that we believe we know who it is, and it’s not one of your friends. Did you read about the Namibian found dead near Hukuntsi?”

  Khumanego said he’d followed the case quite carefully, half expecting that murder to be pinned on Bushmen as well. Kubu didn’t tell him how close he was to being right.

  “We now think that the man who discovered Krige’s body actually killed him. And what’s more, he’d had some shady contacts with Monzo. We’re pretty sure he’s our man.”

  “David, that’s great news! I knew I was right to come to you for help. I’m sorry if it was embarrassing for you, but it’s worked out really well, don’t you think? Do you have this man in custody?”

  This was exactly the opening Kubu wanted. “Well, that’s the bad news. He seems to have gone to ground somewhere in the Kalahari. He may not even know that we’re after him yet. My guess is that he’s gone back to his exploring in the Hukuntsi area where he found Krige. But he may be hiding. What I was hoping was that you might be able to get the Bushmen in the area to help find him.”

  Khumanego hesitated. “Bushmen aren’t enthusiastic about helping the police.”

  “That’s understandable, but this is very much in their interests. If we get these murders sorted out, then people will leave them alone.”

  Khumanego sighed. “I wish that was true, David. But I’ll see what I can do. Leave it with me. I do have a few contacts out there.”

  “Thanks, my friend. But be very careful. No one must try to stop him if they see him. If we’re right, he’s violent, and he’s committed two murders already. I’ll fax you one of the Wanted flyers for him.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, and then Kubu rang off. After that he talked to the Interpol liaison officer. The
y decided to alert the Zimbabwe border posts as well.

  Kubu felt a tinge of frustration. How could someone disappear for a week with the whole of Botswana looking for him? But he knew the answer already. Botswana has a lot of empty space.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When he saw Haake’s Land Cruiser pulling into the Kgalagadi Filling Station, Willie ran to be first there. He always tried to serve Haake because he tipped well. And surprisingly, the Namibian seemed to have taken a shine to the diminutive Bushman, laughing whenever Willie agilely used the front wheel as a leg up to reach the middle of the windshield. They’d spend a few minutes chatting before Haake took off again. Willie liked to hear about Windhoek, a place he could hardly imagine. And sometimes he would ask Haake what he was looking for in the Kalahari. He was interested and, of course, he’d been told to ask. But Haake would laugh and tell him he’d find out if he was patient. He said he’d give Willie a hundred-pula tip on the day he found what he sought. That hadn’t happened yet. It was a standard joke between them. “No hundred pula today,” Haake would say, and Willie would laugh.

  But this day was different. Willie was nervous. He knew the police were looking for Haake; he’d seen the picture that Constable Tau had brought around. He didn’t know what to do. But he smiled and waved, pretending everything was as usual, and Haake smiled back.

  “Fill it up, Willie,” he said.

  “Jerry cans too, Mr. Haake?” Willie indicated the fuel cans on the roof rack.

  Haake shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m heading back home tomorrow.”

  He didn’t seem in the mood to talk, so Willie went about the business of putting diesel into the thirsty tank. He carefully cleaned the windshield, making sure no marks were left when the water dried. He would have cleaned the back window too, but was puzzled to find a cardboard sheet in its place.

  “Broke the window, Mr. Haake?”

  “Had an accident and didn’t have time to get the glass replaced. Hardly matters. Doesn’t look like rain out here!” They both laughed.

  Haake got out and checked the Cash and Carry shop next door, but found it closed, hardly surprising as it was after 7:00 p.m. Willie hoped the other attendant didn’t recognize the Namibian, but it was quiet at the gas station this late, and the other man was sitting some distance away.

  “You want stuff at the Tuck Shop, Mr. Haake?” The Tuck Shop was attached to the gas station and sold snacks and cold drinks. But Haake shook his head. “I’ll try to get a hot sandwich at the Endabeni place rather than junk food.”

  Willie finished fueling and told Haake the amount owed.

  “You fine, Willie? All well here? You look a bit upset today.”

  “Fine, Mr. Haake.” He hesitated but knew he had to ask. “You find what you looking for out there?” Willie waved his hand to indicate the Kalahari. Haake just smiled and handed him money to cover the diesel. Willie came back hopeful with the change, but Haake took all of it from him. Then he opened his wallet, took out a hundred-pula note, and handed it to the Bushman.

  For a moment Willie looked at it openmouthed, his anxiety forgotten. “You found it, Mr. Haake? Really? After this long time? Really? Where? What is it?”

  Haake laughed at the torrent of curiosity. “You’ll find out one day, Willie. No hurry. Now I need to get something to eat. Don’t spend all that money at once, hey!” He climbed back into the vehicle and headed up the tarred road through Hukuntsi.

  Willie watched him go, rubbing the hundred-pula note between his thumb and fingers as if to prove it was really there. For a moment he hesitated—Haake had been nice to him—but then he picked up the phone and rang the man who called himself Piscoaghu, who had been waiting for several days.

  “Did he give you the money? The hundred pula?” The voice was tense.

  “Yes, Piscoaghu. He gave me the money.”

  “So he found it. Did he tell you about it?”

  “No, I must wait to find out. He said nothing else.”

  “But you’re sure he found what he was looking for?”

  “He gave me the money,” Willie repeated.

  There was silence. Willie squirmed. “Look, Piscoaghu, the police want him. I’ve seen the poster! Must I tell them he was here? Maybe I’ll get in trouble.”

  “Tell them nothing. Don’t talk to anyone about this. No one. Did he say where he was going?”

  “He wanted food. From Endabeni. He’s going home tomorrow.”

  “All right. Good. Now I have things I must do quickly.”

  Without a word of thanks or farewell, the man hung up.

  Wolfgang Haake pulled up outside the Endabeni Guest House and sat for a few moments thinking. Why had he given Willie the hundred pula? Was he really that sure? “I have found it,” he told himself. “The koppies match the sketch. And the W on the map must mean wasser, because there’s a spring at the back of the cave the arrow points to. And now I know what the E stands for too—Edelstein—‘gemstone.’ There are amethysts in that cave—but not the diamonds I’d hoped for.” He rubbed his forehead. “But they must be there.”

  However, there were still issues to address. If the diamonds were there, the kimberlite would have to be skulking below the surface hidden from view. How was he going to check that? I’ll work it out when I’m back in Windhoek, he thought, trying to drive the doubt from his mind.

  He went inside to the reception counter, which divided the dining room from the kitchen. A young woman he didn’t recognize greeted him, but explained that dinner was over. The staff left at eight, but he managed to persuade her to make him a sandwich with Russian sausages and heat it in the microwave. It would only take a few minutes, and there would be a few pula for her.

  After about five minutes, another woman—one he thought he knew this time—came out and looked at him, but didn’t return his greeting. Thinking he might stay the night, he asked her if she had a room. She shook her head vehemently and went back. He heard agitated voices in the kitchen. What a fuss over a sandwich! He was getting tired of waiting. At last the first woman produced the sandwich on a plate and suggested that there might be a room after all, but Haake had had enough. The food was scalding hot—too long in the microwave—and he wanted to get going. I’ll have it in peace with a beer when I find somewhere to camp, he decided. “Wrap it for me, please. I will take it with me.” She nodded, slid the sandwich onto a piece of newspaper, closed it gingerly because of the heat, and offered it to him apologetically. He paid, gave her the tip he had promised, and went out to his car.

  At first he noticed nothing wrong, but when he started to reverse he realized that the cardboard covering the back window was now loose. That was odd, it had held well until now. He stopped the car and examined the adhesive duct tape. It had come away from the metal and was loose on three sides. It was as though someone had pulled it open like a door and then tried crudely to reattach it. Suspicious now, he turned on the car’s interior light and looked around. Almost immediately he realized that the GPS was gone. Cursing, he wondered if this was a petty theft, opportunistic with the vehicle essentially open, or if it was something more sinister. Was it possible that someone wanted the record of his trip to the prospect? Or that someone wanted him not to have a record? But it wasn’t a disaster. He knew the coordinates off by heart.

  Briefly he considered contacting the police, but they’d never bother with a petty theft, and that is what they’d think it was. The best thing, he decided, was to get moving. Find a safe, private place to camp, not visible from the road, and head back to Windhoek as soon as possible using the shorter dirt road through Kule. Then he could decide what to do next. He had friends at home. Maybe they would help when he showed them the samples he’d collected, including the amethysts he’d picked up off the ground.

  He pulled back onto the road and headed west out of Hukuntsi. He’d find a good camping spot not far out of town.

  Fifteen minutes later Constable Tau and three other policemen, all armed, arrived at the End
abeni Guest House. There was much excitement from the ladies running the establishment, including criticism about how long it had taken the police to get there from neighboring Tshane. But no one had any idea where Wolfgang Haake had gone.

  Haake found a spot off the road under a group of trees where he couldn’t be seen by passing cars, although he expected none to use this track at night. He switched off his engine but oddly the sound seemed to continue for a few moments as though the motor had run on. He sat and listened for several minutes, but there was no other sound. It must be my imagination, he thought. This is getting to me. I’ve got to keep calm.

  He would use the roof tent to sleep, but he set up a table and chair and enjoyed a chilled beer from his camping fridge, while he ate the now cold sandwich. He began to relax. His mind mulled over the loss of the GPS. Was someone trying to steal his discovery? Or were these the people who already knew about it and simply wanted to stop him interfering? He’d spent years looking for the source of Namibia’s diamonds. No one was going to take it away from him, whoever they were. He downed another beer. After a while he needed to relieve himself. He’d once been told that you never own beer, you just borrow it.

  He stood up, and in doing so, he moved into the pool of light from the rechargeable camping lantern on the table. He heard the sound of a vibrating string, and the next instant he screamed at the sudden pain in his right thigh. A thin shaft about twenty inches long protruded from his leg.

  Haake knocked over the light and scrambled back into his vehicle, gasping in agony when the door caught the arrow shaft. Gritting his teeth, he tried to yank it loose, but the pain was too much. With a yell, he started the vehicle, accelerated back to the track, and drove toward Hukuntsi as fast as he could go.