by Tony Park
‘Do you know a Mr Pens?’ Carmel asked the ranger.
‘But of course. He owns Mist Tours. Are you part of his group for tomorrow?’
‘I’m not sure exactly who we’ve booked with,’ Henri said.
‘All I know,’ Liesl added, ‘was that one of the local tour operators offered permits for me and my friends here as a favour to Escape! magazine. I didn’t even look at the name of the operator.’
Henri pulled from his pocket the gorilla permits he’d collected from the Rwanda Development Board office. ‘I didn’t check either.’ He looked at the top one, then turned to Carmel. ‘Merde.’ He handed her the slip of paper.
‘Mist Tours,’ she read.
‘Let me see that.’ Liesl snatched the permit from Carmel. ‘Oh my God. He’s been behind this all along. He knew we were coming.’
The fear gripped Carmel’s insides and chilled her. She looked at Aston, who simply shrugged. ‘You know the name of the man you seek now?’
‘Yes,’ Carmel said, deliberately not revealing her source.
‘Then perhaps you don’t need my services any more. I don’t recognise the name Pens, though.’
Carmel regarded him. If he was in on this, with Hess, aka Pens, then Aston would have wanted to stay with them, to make sure they didn’t run or try to contact the local police. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that both Aston and Hess were both guilty of wildlife smuggling. ‘How about the name Hess?’ she said to Aston.
The Zambian tapped his chins with a podgy index finger, then shrugged. ‘No, I am afraid I don’t recognise that name either. What do you know of this man?’
‘Virtually nothing.’
‘Well, if I am not needed, I think I might see if my driver can get me back to Kigali this evening.’
‘I’m sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you,’ Carmel said.
*
Richard and Collette had jumped in a taxi and checked into the Metcourt Hotel at the Emperor’s Palace casino complex, a couple of kilometres from the airport. The Metcourt was the cheapest of the three hotels at Emperor’s.
Richard stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. The room was small but functional and the shower door swung around to enclose the toilet. There was a knock on the door.
‘It’s me,’ Collette said.
Richard undid the security latch and opened the door to let her in.
‘Oh, I can come back when you’re ready,’ she said.
He waved a hand. ‘No, it’s fine. Make yourself comfortable.’ Richard went back into the bathroom, shut the door and applied a fresh dressing to his leg wound and checked the scratch on his chest wasn’t bleeding. He changed into the cleanish clothes he’d salvaged from his bag. He walked back into the room barefoot, and buttoned his shirt.
‘So what do we do now?’ Collette was sitting on the bed. She crossed her legs.
It occurred to Richard, now that they were alone, that she’d matured into a beautiful woman. It was a measure, he thought, either of the gravity of the situation or his own maturity that it had taken him this long to appreciate her. Her hair was damp and she’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt she’d bought along with the new clothes for Richard before leaving Australia. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
He’d tried Kenya Airlines and Rwandair when they’d arrived, but neither airline had seats available that night for a flight to Kenya or Rwanda. Instinctively, he thought he should be with Liesl and Carmel, on their quest to track down the man in the picture, but logically he knew that he and Collette would not be able to catch up to the others before they found Hess.
‘I’m pleased we couldn’t get a flight to Rwanda,’ Collette said.
‘I understand why you don’t want to go back.’
Collette shook her head. ‘I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know why I agreed to come this far with you. I should have stayed in Australia and explained to the police what happened. What if there’s an investigation and they won’t let me back in the country, Richard?’
He felt helpless and ashamed that he, too, felt the same as Collette about going back to Rwanda. He wondered if he should have stayed with Liesl. But she was like a hyena tearing at a carcass – relentless and fearless. He thought about Carmel, and the memory of what they’d had, prior to his cheating, was like pulling a sticky plaster off a partly healed wound. He’d been an idiot all his life, and the one woman who might have healed him was heading into danger while he languished in an airport hotel. He had to do something. His phone beeped from the bedside table. He picked it up and read the SMS.
‘Who is it?’ Collette asked, as impatient as he.
‘It’s Theron, the endangered-species cop. He’s just pulled into the car park.’
They left the hotel and walked through the convention centre, across the road and into the covered mall where the complex’s shops and restaurants lined a faux-Italian piazza under a roof painted to look like a blue sky dotted with clouds. A replica of Michelangelo’s David stood in the centre, wearing a hard hat and a tool belt. Richard and Collette walked past some tourists who were snapping David, and into the Tribes steakhouse. A white man wearing jeans and a golf shirt stood up from his table as they entered.
‘Doctor Dunlop?’
‘Captain Theron?’
‘Yes. Howzit.’ He clasped Richard’s hand in a grip that might have cost him his living if he was a surgeon. Richard introduced Collette and Theron nodded to her. ‘Take a seat.’
Richard noticed the policeman was drinking Coke, so he ordered a sparkling water from the waiter and Collette asked for a Sprite.
‘Tell me what you know about Karl Hess,’ Theron said without preamble.
Richard spread his hands. ‘Not a lot. Collette recognised him from the photo I sent you. She remembered his name.’
‘My father was an officer in the Rwandan Army,’ she explained. ‘This man Hess visited us a few times. I was scared of him.’
‘You were right to fear him,’ Theron said, ‘but please continue.’
Collette looked at Richard, who took up the story and explained about the attempt on his life, Collette’s kidnapping and the failed hits on Carmel and Liesl.
‘If Hess was behind all this, you’ve been incredibly lucky,’ Theron said. ‘He was a ruthless killer.’
‘Was?’ Richard asked.
‘I was chasing Hess, when he worked as a professional hunter back in 2004, along with a Russian client of his named Orlov. I suspected them of being involved in the killing of a big bull elephant from the Kruger Park and later they tried to kill a protected black rhino in a national park in Zimbabwe. I was part of an undercover operation that tracked them into Zambia. Orlov was arrested and charged with poaching and the murder of a ranger in Mozambique. Hess left a string of bodies as he tried to cover his tracks – a woman he shot in cold blood in Mozambique, a man he stabbed to death in Zimbabwe and a South African pilot who had helped him. He’s ex-military, special forces, and he kills with ruthless efficiency. I almost had him, but he fell out of a helicopter during a struggle to apprehend him. I was on the helicopter – flying it – but I had wounded on board and couldn’t land. I went back the next day with the Zambian police to the spot where Hess had fallen out, but we never found his body. There were lion and hyena tracks in the area – it was in the Game Management Area on the border of the South Luangwa National Park – and the locals speculated that Hess’s body had been cleaned up by animals. I wasn’t convinced.’
‘Well, it seems he’s alive and well and living in Rwanda,’ Richard said.
‘And you have friends up there looking for him?’
‘Yes,’ Richard said to the policeman. ‘They’ve found someone who recognised him from the picture and says Hess – who goes by the name of Pens – owns a trekking lodge near the Volcanoes National Park.’
Theron nodded. ‘That’s a plausible place for him to end up. I did a good deal of research into Hess’s background when I was investigating him. I
spoke to ex-military people who served with him in the Rhodesian SAS and later in the elite Koevoet police unit during the war in the old South-West Africa. After South-West became Namibia, Hess left the country – the new government would have arrested him for war crimes in any case, and he ended up in Rwanda and Zaire. There were rumours that he’d been dealing in arms, and your photo of him with the surface-to-air missile seems to indicate that he was. I know, too, that it was around that time, when his work as a soldier started to dry up, that he also began focusing on making a reputation for himself as a professional hunter who would go to any lengths to get his clients the trophies they wanted.’
‘Who was he working for in Rwanda and Zaire?’
Theron shrugged. ‘We don’t know. Himself, mostly, making money by dealing in weapons, but there were rumours mentioned by people who knew him that he was also an asset for a foreign intelligence agency. Some said the Americans, others the French. If he was working for the Americans he could have been assisting Kagame and the Tutsis behind the scenes, but there’s always been talk about the French propping up the Hutus. Who knows? Perhaps he was working for more than one political paymaster. He eventually moved to South Africa where he bought a hunting farm up in the Limpopo Province – a big place with a fancy lodge. Whatever he was doing in central Africa, he must have made some serious bucks. If he did survive his fall from the helicopter in 2004, then Rwanda would be as remote a place as any for him to set himself up with a fake identity. If your friends can positively identify him, I can get a warrant to extradite him back to South Africa. It could take a couple of days.’
‘We don’t have a couple of days,’ Richard said, draining his water. The waiter, who had been hovering nearby, refilled his glass. What he really wanted was a beer, but there was work to be done. ‘What about this man Mutale?’
Theron smoothed his moustache with his fingers. ‘Ja, this one is closer to home. I have his address in Joburg. But apart from his earlier conviction for smuggling wildlife, I’ve got nothing on him.’
‘He’s connected, I’m sure of it,’ Richard said. ‘It’s too coincidental, him making contact with Liesl Nel – the photojournalist I told you about – and him knowing where to find this Pens. I’m worried that my friends are walking into a trap. Can you search his home or his office?’
‘Not without probable cause,’ Theron said. ‘I have no evidence he’s committed a crime.’
‘You could check his phone records – see if he’s made calls to Rwanda recently.’
‘What would that prove? We know he’s in Rwanda for business. It could be legitimate,’ Theron countered.
Richard thumped his hand down on the table, making Collette start. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got his address.’
Theron leaned back in his seat and regarded Richard through narrowed eyes. ‘What are you planning?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ Richard asked back.
‘We have to do something,’ Collette said as the two men eyed each other.
‘Do you have a car?’ Theron asked.
‘I could rent one.’
‘Do you know how to break into a building?’ Theron said.
Richard shrugged. ‘How hard can it be?’
The policeman’s mouth turned in a hint of a smile. ‘Maybe I can give you a lift.’
*
Liesl opened the door of her room at the guesthouse and looked out. There was no sign of Carmel or Henri, so she slipped out, shouldering her camera bag. She walked briskly up the driveway and turned left, retracing their earlier walk.
She passed the park entrance and carried on until the tarred road became a potholed dirt track as it entered a village. She presumed this was where most of the park rangers and trackers lived. Barefoot boys and girls in school uniforms waved to her, and a woman with a plastic jerry can of water balanced on her head gave a shy smile in reply to Liesl’s, ‘Good evening.’
A late-afternoon downpour had left the road muddy and the fields on either side of her soaked. A few shafts of golden sunlight struggled through the thinning clouds and the mist that was skirting the nearest volcano. Liesl was wearing her waterproof jacket, in case of more rain, and it warded off the growing chill of the evening.
‘Mist Lodge?’ she asked a woman with a baby tied to her back with a brightly printed kikoi. The woman nodded and pointed over her shoulder, in the direction Liesl was headed. ‘Thank you.’
Men sat outside a whitewashed shebeen, drinking beer from half-litre Primus bottles, and Liesl ignored their leers as she strode through the village. The houses gave way to a straggly plantation of gum trees that blocked the light completely and shrouded her in a spooky darkness. She shivered. According to the rough map in her guidebook, Mist Lodge should be about two kilometres further on.
‘Pencil pen, pencil pen,’ two small boys called to her, their hands outstretched as they jogged past her. She smiled and shook her head. A sign told her the entry to Mist Lodge was just five hundred metres ahead. She trudged on through the gloom. When she emerged from the gum forest she saw the clouds had cleared a little more, giving her the benefit of more light.
Liesl weighed up whether to go off the road and circle around the lodge through the fields of beans and maize, or to just walk in through the front gate. As the lodge entrance came into sight she saw two women in brightly coloured rain jackets standing by the entrance, taking pictures of the sun setting behind the mountains. Liesl paused and unslung her pack and took out one of her two camera bodies. She put her pack back on and slung the camera around her neck. Security around the lodge looked minimal, just a low fence augmented with a trimmed hedge. What looked like the main building was a stone structure with a thatch roof turned green with moss which had flourished in the cool, wet climate. Smoke curled from a chimney.
‘Glorious view, isn’t it?’ she said to the women.
‘Oh, yes. It’s simply gorgeous,’ a woman with short grey hair replied.
‘Getting cold, though,’ Liesl said. ‘Can’t wait to get in and sit by that fire!’
‘Y’all got that right,’ the woman drawled in a southern United States accent.
Liesl raised her camera and shot a few frames to keep up appearances. When the women turned to re-enter the lodge Liesl tagged along behind them. There was a security guard who eyed her curiously for a few moments, but when Liesl said good afternoon to him and smiled, he returned the gesture and greeting.
She had bluffed her way past the security guard, but Liesl doubted her ability to fool any reception staff inside the lodge. She walked up to the building but when the grey-haired tourist walked in and held the door open for her, Liesl reached into her jacket and drew out her cigarettes. ‘Thanks, but I’m going to have one of these before I come in to that fire.’
‘OK,’ the woman said, and closed the door behind her.
Liesl looked back up towards the gate and saw the guard had retreated into the small wooden gatehouse, which was illuminated by the weak light of a paraffin lantern from inside. She ducked into the shadow cast by the lodge in the dying rays, and carried on, past a row of five accommodation units. A man and a woman emerged from one and said good evening to her. Liesl nodded and carried on. Beyond the huts she could see a gate in the fence and hedge, and another large stone and thatched house beyond. A sign above the gate said, Private Residence, Staff Only. No Entry.
Liesl checked over her shoulder again and pushed open the gate, which was unlocked. Her heart started pounding when she saw the silver Toyota Corolla that Aston had been driven in from Kigali parked at the end of a driveway leading to another gate. Aston’s driver was sitting on the bonnet smoking a cigarette. He turned his head at the sound of the squeaky gate. Liesl ducked back behind the hedge and ran, as the gate, which was hooked to a spring, slammed shut.
She darted along the hedge line looking for another way in; when she came to the corner of the yard she found a stretch where the wire mesh of the fence between the lodge and the private residence
had been peeled off the pole and bent over. She guessed this was a short cut created by staff wanting to pass from the lodge to the residence and then out the residence gate, which was just on the other side. Liesl squeezed through and stayed in the shadows, catching her breath. She could see the glow of Aston’s driver’s cigarette. The man didn’t seem to have been alarmed by the closing gate. Liesl bent double as she moved down another decorative hedgerow that flanked a path leading to the house. A light shone through a crack in the curtains of the nearest window and, like the main lodge, the smell of wood smoke told her there was someone inside by a fire. A new Land Rover Discovery 4 was parked outside the house. Liesl went to the window and dropped to one knee.
Inside, the Zambian, Aston, was standing in front of a roaring fire, his nose in a brandy balloon. Opposite him, gesticulating and stabbing a finger at him, was a man with short-cut white hair. The right side of the man’s face was creased by a puckered scar that ran from his hairline all the way down through the empty socket of his eye and down to his chin.
Despite the frightful disfigurement, and the addition of about eighteen years to his age, there was no doubt this was the man in the photograph – Karl Hess, aka Jurgen Pens. Liesl raised the camera and set the ISO to 6400 to increase the light sensitivity and avoid the need for a flash. She fired off eight rapid frames, focusing on Hess’s battered face.
‘Got you,’ she mouthed. Liesl had the photographic evidence that Aston was in cahoots with Hess, but she needed to know more now, like what they were talking about. She moved along the outside of the lodge and smelled cooking food. She came to a door in the back with a lit glass pane. She heard women chatting in Kinyarwanda and the clang of metal pans. This must be the kitchen. Looking out into the gloom, she saw the fence at the rear of the property was much higher than the perimeter barrier. This one stood about three metres and was topped with razor wire. Beyond it, in a separate compound, was a long, low building made of stone with a corrugated-iron roof.
