Chapter 16
John McBride was oddly excited about the Kruger Park trip. The chance to be painting again, the success of his previous animal pictures, the confidence that here was another talent he had mastered. More than that, he was baiting the trap that hopefully would bring in Markham. He saw that Dusty, too, seemed excited to be on the move. He was driving with confident ease, pushing the four wheel drive car along at a steady sixty miles an hour.
They pulled into the border control. The soldier came across to the car, saw Dusty in the driver’s seat, gave a smart salute.
“Good morning, Sir. Please proceed. Have a good day.” And they were moving off into South Africa.
They drove steadily all day, with only one rest stop where they ate a quick snack. They were fighting time, as they had to make the Malelane Gate before it closed at six pm. They made it with an hour and a half to spare. McBride was unsure what the security aspects would be like. On his previous visits to game parks, which had been in Maswatiland, there had been no security at all. He went into the reception with Dusty. They had all the documentation from the travel agent, although they knew they had to pay the conservation fee. This is over forty dollars a day for each person. McBride knew that South Africans paid something like 75 cents a day, but that seemed fair enough. They both had pistols with them, but had hidden them in the car, in case they were expected to go through a metal detector. They were asked to fill in forms which asked questions about such things as explosives and guns. They both lied. Their travel agency documents were stamped, and they were told they needed an exit permit which could be obtained at their final camp. They were free to enter the park, and returned to their vehicle.
It was only eight miles to the Berg-en-Del camp, but the cars in front were not in a hurry, and were stopping every time any animal was spotted so the going was slow, and the seven miles took them nearly an hour. It was dusk before they turned into the camp, and a guard was waiting to close the gate for the night. Not to keep the tourists in, but to keep dangerous animals out.
The reception office was still open, and they booked in. They were given a map of the camp, and the clerk penciled a ring round their bungalow, number seven. The map gave details of the swimming pool location and a central restaurant. McBride noticed a viewing area just outside the camp, by a river dam.
They took their car up to the bungalow, put their luggage inside, had a quick wash, and headed down to the restaurant. It was a moonlit night, and several lamps illuminated the main paths. Mosquitos buzzed.
“Good job we had the malaria tablets,” said McBride.
“I never get bitten for some reason, but I still take the tablets.”
The restaurant probably had seating for over a hundred, but was less than half full. McBride scanned the other customers carefully, looking for Markham who would probably be accompanied by the chauffeur. If he still had his arm in plaster, that would make him stand out. McBride was disappointed, but the fact Markham was not in the restaurant didn’t mean he wasn’t at the camp. If he was a clever assailant, he would have arranged for someone at the reception to inform him when McBride arrived. Money would have changed hands, probably with a promise of more to come.
The service was terribly slow, and if McBride hadn’t been extremely hungry, he would probably have suggested leaving. But the food, when it came, was quite good. It was late when they left to go back to their bungalow, and there were few people about.
“Do you realize,” said McBride, “That one reason Markham wasn’t dining is because he’s in the bungalow, waiting to kill us?”
“Using the key that his contact in the reception gave him.”
“You think I’m just winding you up?”
“Not necessarily. We’ll act in SAS fashion when we approach the building.”
“Using stun grenades, lobbed through the windows.”
“I knew I’d forgotten to pack something,” said Dusty.
They were approaching the bungalow now, so they stopped the conversation, moving behind their hire car, so that they could view the bungalow for signs of occupation.
“We need the handguns,” said McBride in a whisper. Dusty dug in his pocket, produced the key and zapper.
“Use the key, not the zapper. Less commotion that way.” Miller turned the key, then opened the car’s front door, reached up and dowsed the automatic interior lights. Next he pushed the front door carefully closed, noiselessly. He opened a back door, reached under the front seats. When he had got the hire car, he had stitched black cloth hammocks to stow the guns in. It wouldn’t have fooled anyone who carried out a thorough search, but a perfunctory search at the Kruger Park, had there been one, would probably not revealed the weapons.
Dusty handed one of the pistols to McBride, pocketing the other one.
“You stay at the door while I make a quick circuit of the building. Give me two or three minutes.” Then McBride was disappearing into the darkness, leaving Miller standing close by the doorway, his back to the timber wall.
McBride found there was an earth path round the structure. The chance of making a noise that might be heard inside was lessened by the nightlife of Africa. The howls of hyenas annoyed McBride, and he thought he may spend a week not sleeping, unless he could find some earplugs. There were strange noises closer to the bungalow. Rustling noises came from the bushes, and then a noise of somebody on the roof of the bungalow. McBride froze, his pistol in his hand. Footsteps on the thatched roof moved his way, and then in front of him, merely three feet away, a small hand reached forward. A child? Too small for a man. Suddenly McBride smiled to himself in embarrassment. It was a monkey, trying to find a way into the building. “Boo,” said McBride, and waved his arms. The monkey turned tail and sped over the roof the way he had come.
All the windows of the bungalow were in darkness, though McBride ducked below each of them in case anyone was looking out. He arrived back, and Miller was still standing in the same position, though he turned his head to indicate that he had heard McBride. He was a good man, Miller. No-one else McBride knew would have heard him coming.
McBride positioned himself on the other side of the door, spoke in a whisper.
“Okay, Dusty unlock it, and we both do a roll through, me first.”
Dusty reached out, inserted the key, turned it, slammed the door back, and it all happened within seconds. McBride dived through, hitting the floor with his shoulder, pistol held high, rolling quickly forward so that Dusty wouldn’t land on him. He heard him swear as he landed hard, and then he reached for the light flicked it on, and rose to his feet. There was no-one in the living room, which was directly behind the front door.
“Secure the building,” shouted Miller, dashing for the bedroom. McBride dived through the other door, which was the kitchen. The house was now a blaze of light, every room lit up. Markham and his cronies were not in evidence.
They both returned to the living room, pistols being returned to their pockets.
“Never a dull moment,” said McBride. “You fancy a drink? I’ve a bottle of whisky in my luggage.”
When McBride turned in, he stowed his pistol under the pillow, and hoped that Miller had done the same.
The Ponzi Men Page 16
