by Tony Park
‘OK, Richard, but you must talk to the detectives handling that case. That is the correct protocol. Maybe you should come into the office and see them.’
Richard sighed. ‘I’m in Johannesburg. I can’t come to Nelspruit and I don’t have time to explain what this is about to the detectives. Sannie, please, you have to help me.’
‘No, Richard, I don’t.’
He gritted his teeth. His leg throbbed. ‘When you called 1011 they wanted your husband to drive you to the Mediclinic in Nelspruit to have the baby, didn’t they?’ Again, there was a pause. Richard hated resorting to this.
‘Richard, this is not about my son . . .’
‘They didn’t understand what was happening. If I hadn’t been driving past and seen Tom standing there, frantic, yelling into the phone, little Tommy would have died.’
‘Richard, this isn’t fair. You did your job and we thank you, with all our hearts for it, but . . .’
‘Have you never broken the rules, Sannie? I heard you had a reputation for following your instincts. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but there are people right now who may be heading into grave danger, and all I’m asking you is if these two men whose names I have share a common connection or have any criminal connections.’
She swore, under her breath. ‘Give me the names.’
‘Karl Hess, probably Namibian-born, aged about mid-fifties now, I would guess, and an Aston Mutale, a Zambian living in Johannesburg.’ Richard read Aston’s address and heard Sannie’s fingers tapping on a keyboard.
‘Jislaaik, Richard. A Namibian and a Zambian? What do you think our central criminal records are going to have on these guys?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Give me a couple of minutes. The computer system here is not so lekker.’
Collette came back with two takeaway cups of coffee. Richard nodded his thanks to her and sipped the strong, slightly bitter brew. He knew the fatigue would kick in soon, but he couldn’t afford to rest.
‘OK, Richard? Are you still there?’
‘Yes?’ He had nowhere else to go.
‘This is interesting, hey,’ Sannie said.
‘What is?’
‘This Mutale has one conviction, for smuggling wildlife. Four years ago. He was fined ten thousand rand for trying to send an African rock python out of South Africa to Germany via a courier. The investigating officer was a Captain Fanie Theron. I know him – worked with him not long ago on a case of someone stealing plants from the Kruger Park. He’s head of the Endangered Species Unit.’
‘Smuggling wildlife?’ Richard was vaguely aware that the trade in wildlife was big business, but he wondered if it was something worth killing over. He couldn’t understand what connection Aston Mutale could have to someone who wanted to kill everyone who’d laid eyes on Liesl’s photograph. ‘What about the other guy, Hess?’
‘Dead.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes, but here’s the interesting thing. Hess was wanted for the murder of a woman and a park ranger in Mozambique, and for the poaching of an elephant and theft of ivory. The investigator was the same Captain Theron, but a note on the record said Hess was believed killed in Zambia in 2004.’
Richard thought about possible connections. If there was a link between Mutale and Hess, then it seemed to be the trade in wildlife or wildlife products. Was it possible that Hess was smuggling wild animals out of Rwanda at the time of the genocide, and importing weapons, such as the surface-to-air missile in the photograph, to some splinter military or political faction? And how did the Zambian come into it? In any case, it seemed he’d hit a dead end as Hess, if he was the man in the photograph, was apparently dead.
‘You say you know this Captain Theron. Can you give me his number?’
‘Richard, I don’t know . . .’
‘Sannie, please. Like I said, this is important. I need to talk to Theron. I know Mutale, the Zambian, is in Rwanda right now and I’ve got a suspicion he’s up to something illegal there – something dangerous. Also, some people I know are right this minute also in Rwanda looking for this man Hess.’
‘But he’s dead, Richard. I just told you.’
‘Believed killed, you said. He could still be alive.’
‘All right, I’ll give you Theron’s number, but don’t tell him where you got it, hey?’
‘Thanks, and believe me, I won’t tell him it was you.’ If Hess was alive, he seemed hellbent on killing anyone who got close to him, so Richard had no intention of involving Sannie any further. As soon as he’d taken down Theron’s number he ended the call.
He called Captain Theron on the cellphone number Sannie had given him. Collette took a seat next to him, on the bench. People passed by them, pushing trolleys laden with baggage, hugging and kissing friends and relatives, or walking briskly to flights. Richard wished he could be one of them – coming home or running off to somewhere exotic.
‘Theron, hello.’
‘Captain, you don’t know me, but I understand you were involved in the investigation of a man named Karl Hess, for murder and wildlife-related crimes several years back.’
There was a pause. ‘Who is this? What do you know about Karl Hess?’
Richard heard the excitement in the pitch of the officer’s voice. He guessed it wasn’t every day a policeman who investigated smuggled reptiles and plants got involved in a double murder. ‘Captain, what would you say if I told you I had information that Karl Hess was alive and living in Rwanda?’
There was an intake of breath. ‘I would say, where are you? I’d need to see you right away.’
‘First I want to make sure we’re not wasting each other’s time. Can you give me an email address?’ Theron gave him his police email. ‘I’m sending you a photo, now.’ Richard paused to scroll through to the copy of Liesl’s photo he had on his iPhone and then sent the image to Theron.
When Richard got back onto the phone the detective asked him again for his name and his whereabouts, and demanded he explain further what information he had about Hess. ‘Just check the picture, Captain.’
‘Ja, OK. It’s through now. I’m looking.’
Richard waited, and looked at Collette. She had been eavesdropping.
‘It’s an old picture, but it’s him,’ the captain said. ‘I’d recognise him anywhere. Where was this taken? Zaire?’
‘Close. Rwanda. I think about 1994.’
‘Makes sense,’ Theron said. ‘But this man was killed in 2004.’
Richard played a hunch. ‘But let me guess, you never found a body?’
Again, Theron paused. ‘Listen, whoever you are, tell me where you are. I need to speak with you.’
‘OK, my name is Doctor Richard Dunlop. I’m at the arrivals hall at OR Tambo International Airport. Some friends of mine are on their way to possibly meet with the man in that picture, in Rwanda. He’s been spotted there, alive, recently. This might sound crazy, Captain, but do you think it’s possible that this Hess, if it is him and he’s still alive, would have the ability to order hits on people on three continents?’
‘Doctor Dunlop . . .’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘This man is the devil incarnate.’
27
White man’s name is Jurgen Pens. Owns a half-share in Mist Tours gorilla trekking lodge. Based in South Africa, visits Rwanda occasionally, said the message from Pierre that buzzed onto Liesl’s phone screen.
Liesl took a Lonely Planet guidebook from her daypack and found the chapter on gorilla trekking in Rwanda. The names of several lodges clustered around the entrance to the Volcanoes National Park were listed on a map. She found the Mist Tours lodge. Judging by the scale it looked no more than two or three kilometres from the guesthouse where Henri said they would be staying.
She SMSed the updated information about the white man’s identity to Richard, who responded back less than a minute later:
Must be an alias. I have positively identified him as Karl Hess. Namibian mercenar
y and big-game hunter, wanted for murder and poaching crimes. Be very careful, Liesl. SA Cops say this man is extremely dangerous. Aston Mutale has criminal record for wildlife smuggling. Suggest you all pull back to Kigali and await South African extradition of Hess. We’ve got him now.
Liesl slumped back in the car seat and looked out the window. They’d slowed as Henri navigated his way through a substantial town. ‘Is this Ruhengeri?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Henri said. ‘We’re nearly there. Have you been sleeping?’
‘No.’
Liesl thought about how things would unfold if the South African Police became involved. There would be local cops and prosecutors brought in, and if Hess was wanted for murder there would be publicity. She would lose her scoop and Carmel would lose the high-profile scalp the ICTR needed to show it was doing its job. Liesl wondered if the fact that she was considering endangering herself and her travelling companions by going ahead with a meeting with a killer in order to get a story was, ironically, a sign that she was getting some of her old passion back.
She’d been coasting at Escape!, taking mediocre pictures and filing bland stories about luxury game lodges to repay junkets she’d been given as free holidays. She’d lost her journalistic integrity and her edge. She wanted to investigate and uncover, and to make a difference again. But was it worth risking the lives of the other two people in the car?
Liesl had hurt Carmel badly back in 1995, but that would be nothing compared to what might be waiting in store for them if they bumped into this Pens, or Hess, or whoever he was. The Zambian, Aston, was also a criminal and she was sure he must be connected to the white man somehow. Liesl knew she had to speak up, even though it might cost her the story of her lifetime.
‘Carmel, I’ve just had a message from Richard.’
Carmel turned to look at her, the anger immediate and barely concealed in her eyes. ‘What about?’
‘He’s in South Africa. He’s been following a separate lead about the man in the picture. He says his name is Karl Hess. I’ve also heard from my contact in Rwanda, Pierre. He says the blond man’s name is Jurgen Pens, but Richard thinks that’s an alias.’
Carmel looked stunned. ‘How long has this been going on for – this lead that Richard has been following?’
‘Umm, I’m not sure. He’s only just got to SA from Oz, and I still don’t know exactly what he got up to in Australia.’
Carmel sighed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before, Liesl? We have to communicate.’
Liesl bit back her reply. Carmel was not in the business of sharing. She should have been grateful. ‘There’s more. I got Richard to check out that guy Aston with the police in South Africa. Turns out that he has a record in wildlife smuggling, and Hess was also wanted for murder.’
‘Was wanted?’
‘He was reported missing presumed dead in 2004 the last time the police tried to get him. That was in Zambia. Prior to that Hess was an arms smuggler and a mercenary. I was too hasty inviting Aston to talk to us in the bar. I think now that he was following us, Carmel. If he’s been keeping tabs on us all along then maybe now he’s leading us into a trap.’
Carmel closed her eyes while she digested the information. ‘It could just be another coincidence. If Aston’s been involved with wildlife smuggling, that might be how he knows Hess, but if he knows about past murders, and if they were both working together and planned the attacks on you, me and Richard, then why would he have made contact with us so overtly? It’s almost like he’s asking to be caught.’
‘Look around,’ Liesl said, and gestured out at the streetscape. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. If he’s Hess’s decoy and his job is to draw us into a trap, there’s hardly a more remote place to spring it. Maybe Aston and Hess want to find out just how much we know, and if it turns out we know too much, then they might just finish us off up here.’
Carmel was suspicious as well, but she wanted to see this thing through to the end. If Aston was crooked they would just have to find a way to play him and wrap him up when they found Hess.
‘Carmel,’ Henri interrupted, ‘listen to Liesl. Is there any way you can drop this now – close off your investigation and forget about the photograph? If we stop the car and tell Aston we don’t need to find this Hess or Pens or whoever he is, and that we’re all going home, perhaps that will be the end of it. If Aston is working for the white man, then he can get a message to him without us having to confront him face to face.’
‘A colleague of mine was murdered, Henri,’ Carmel said calmly. ‘You don’t have to be involved here if you don’t want to be.’
That settled it, Liesl thought. There was no going back. Ahead of them a towering dormant volcano rose violently from the otherwise gently undulating landscape. On its slopes, and on the similar neighbouring peaks, lived the last of the endangered mountain gorillas. When Liesl had been in Rwanda back in the nineties she’d thought these gentle primates the only thing good about this screwed-up, torn-up country. Rwanda was at what passed for peace now, and the gorillas’ numbers were, by all accounts, increasing. She’d hungered for action and adventure when she was younger and here she was again being drawn into danger. Part of her wished she could be happy just photographing Africa’s majestic wildlife, but the other side of her was riding high on risk.
Liesl unzipped her bag and wrapped her fingers around the cool glass of the vodka bottle. She started to take it out, but then relaxed her grip. She wanted to do this without the numbing fuzz of alcohol. Her hands started to shake and she looked down at her trembling fingers, hidden by the fabric of her bag. It was just like the old days. She was as excited as she was terrified.
*
Henri pulled into the driveway of the guesthouse and crunched down the gravel to where a woman stood waiting to greet them. A porter was already taking Aston’s bag to his room, which was set in a circular building with a red terracotta-tiled roof. The grounds of the small lodge were carpeted with lush green grass and flowering bushes.
Carmel got out of the RAV4 and went to the back to start unloading. Henri popped the boot door release button and Carmel raised the hatch. Deliberately, she went for Henri’s daypack first. She’d remembered the unfamiliar weight of it, and the way something had clanked on the hotel reception floor when he’d set it down. It was possible he had a bottle of booze in there, but she didn’t think so. She ran her hand over the nylon exterior until she felt the hard, angular shape. It was a pistol. I knew it, she thought. He no doubt had connections, still, here in Rwanda – people he hadn’t mentioned to her. They were lovers but they hardly knew each other. She didn’t want to go into a meeting with Karl Hess armed, but it was comforting to know there would be back-up close by. Hess, too, would have connections if he had managed to carve out a life here after the genocide, perhaps with the local police. She knew the textbook thing to do would have been to contact the police or hand the case over to the Rwandan prosecutors, but she had no proof of any wrongdoing by Hess, and she could only imagine how long it would take to explain the situation to the local authorities and convince them to come along on a raid. In any case, she wanted Hess’s scalp for the ICTR. Carmel licked her lips. As foolhardy as this mission was she was looking forward to this, she realised.
Henri came to the back of the vehicle and she passed him his bags and unloaded Liesl’s and her own. ‘Thanks,’ Liesl said.
‘No problem. What’s your plan?’
Liesl shrugged. ‘I’m going to take a walk up to the national park gate, where the gorilla treks will leave from tomorrow; do a bit of a recce. Also, from what I remember, there’s a village up the road. I might wander up there and take some pics for the magazine. Good local colour.’
Carmel nodded. ‘All right, but don’t go too far.’
‘Yes, Mom.’
Carmel put her hands on her hips and stared at Liesl. She let the comment ride. It was hard for the photojournalist, she knew. She wanted in on the investigation, but knew that Carmel c
ouldn’t allow that. Carmel, for her part, was pleased that Liesl had volunteered the new information about the man they sought, but she also suspected Liesl hadn’t told her everything. ‘I’ll come up to the gate with you once we’ve checked in. I could use a leg stretch after the drive.’
‘Then it’s one for all and all for one,’ Henri chimed in. ‘Let’s all meet back here in ten minutes, yes, after we drop off our luggage?’
The room was tired-looking, Carmel thought. It had a double bed that was saggy and lumpy, and a bathroom with a leaky cistern. The floors were bare concrete and the place smelled damp. It was the sort of place tourists on a budget spent one night before blowing five hundred dollars on a permit to spend an hour with the mountain gorillas the next morning. Carmel went to the toilet, washed her face and hands, and headed back out.
She, Henri and Liesl, who was festooned with two Nikons and carried her camera bag on her back, walked up the road to the entrance gate, which was about three hundred metres from their guesthouse.
‘Hello?’ called a voice behind them. Carmel turned and saw Aston waving and waddling up the street towards them. ‘Where are you going?’
‘None of your business,’ Henri said under his breath.
‘Just to the park gate,’ Carmel called back.
‘I will come too.’ Aston was panting by the time he caught up with them.
When they’d arrived the sky had been relatively clear, littered with a few skerricks of white cottonwool that hung around the tops of the volcanoes; but now the clouds had coalesced into towering grey thunderheads that blotted out the afternoon sun and brought a chill to the air.
The four of them crossed the deep stormwater drain and walked to the national parks office. A man in civilian clothes greeted them warmly and asked if they were coming to see the mountain gorillas the next day.
‘Yes, we are,’ Carmel said.
‘You are most welcome.’ The man explained to them that they should assemble back at the entrance at seven the next morning, and cautioned them not to be late. He ran through a well-rehearsed checklist of what to wear – long trousers and sleeves, and gloves if they had them to ward off stinging nettles, and a hat to keep off the sun.
