Dead of Night

by Michael Stanley

  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, computer and credit cards 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.

  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 the car she’d rented.

  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 impala, kudu and zebra came down to drink.

  As she drove on she came to a group of giraffe 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.

  Eventually, Crys headed back to the airport and returned the car. She checked in, keeping a look out for anything unusual, but the crowd of tourists heading back to Johannesburg made 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 greys 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 forwards. 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 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, there was a man with trolley laden with suitcases. She pushed past him, grabbed the top case, and threw it at Pockface, who was only a couple of metres 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 trolley. 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.

  How did he find her?

  She kept running, awash with adrenaline, 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.

  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 loo
k out in case Pockface had escaped and was on her trail.

  Fuck Pockface. Fuck Mabula. She was getting out of that fucking country.

  PART 3

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Chapter 24

  As the plane descended towards Geneva, Crys stared down at the gorgeous city, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and hugging the edge of the long, silvery lake. She let out a long sigh of relief.

  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’d chosen a reasonably priced hotel that was near downtown and the Rhône river, and she went there directly from the airport. 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 over 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 patronising tone out of her voice. ‘And I did try to speak to you.’

  Again Mabula didn’t reply.

  ‘Have you made any progress finding 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?’ she asked.

  ‘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 neighbourhood 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 her 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 is 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 realised 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 realised 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 in what shape?

  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.

  The secretary general, Dr Helmholz, was a carefully polite man, German-speaking, but with meticulous English. Crys explained about her article on rhinos for National Geographic, and he nodded frequently in agreement with what she said. He answered her questions and tried to be helpful, but it was clear that he saw rhinos as only a small part of his problem.

  ‘You must understand, Ms Nguyen,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘CITES deals with an enormous number of problems. We coordinate the control of trade in a huge variety of species, from elephants to stag beetles. That does not allow us time to focus on any one group of animals – even one as important as rhinos. Tigers are probably even more endangered right now than the white rhino. Pangolins are headed for extinction, and most people do not even know what they are.’ He shook his head in disbelief at such ignorance.

  ‘But aren’t tigers, rhinos and pangolins all part of the same problem?’ Crys asked. ‘People believe they have all sorts of miraculous properties and are willing to pay money for that – a lot of money.’

  This seemed to strike a chord with him. ‘Exactly right!’ he said. ‘That is why we need to see this in context. It is a human problem, not an animal problem. I am not saying the solution is the same for each species. But, perhaps, the problem is. That is how we must think about it.’ He certainly sounded convincing to Crys.

  ‘So, what is your policy as far as trade in rhino horn is concerned?’ she asked ready to take notes.

  ‘Well, of course, CITES does not set policy. We implement the pol
icy as set by the signatory countries – in this case, no trade. So that is our policy: no trade.’ He glanced at her pad, as if he expected her to write the two words down.

  ‘But do you think that’s correct?’

  He hesitated over that. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. But that is my personal opinion.’

  ‘What about South Africa’s decision last year to allow free trade within the country?’

  ‘I refer you to our press release on the subject,’ he said looking down at his desk. ‘I do not wish to add to that.’

  Crys had read the CITES press release. It amounted to very little, and she guessed that Helmholz thought so too.

  Crys realised she wasn’t going to have much more of his time, so she launched into a quick summary of her trip to South Africa.

  He heard her out with encouraging nods, but she saw him glance at his watch and then at his computer screen. At the end he said, ‘Ms Nguyen, I am truly shocked by your experience in South Africa.’ But his body language and his words didn’t match. ‘It just shows how dangerous the situation can be,’ he continued. ‘And how important it is to control these poachers.’ He checked his watch again.

  ‘Exactly,’ she responded. ‘And I believe from what I overheard that something major is about to happen there. I don’t see how they could kill a lot of rhinos at once, but elephants move in big herds. It could be a plan to shoot several herds of elephants for ivory.’

  ‘I trust this has all been reported to the relevant authorities, and that they will take the appropriate action.’

  ‘That’s where you can help, Dr Helmholz.’ Crys paused and leaned forwards a little. ‘I really don’t think the authorities are taking this seriously enough.’

  ‘How could I help?’ He gave a puzzled smile.