by Tony Park
With his thumb rolling over her clit, she peaked hard – an orgasm that detonated through her body and sent a blast of heat over his cock and into the water around them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he freed his hand to smooth the wet blonde strands of hair from her face so he could look into her liquid blue eyes.
She moaned as he started to move inside her again, and it almost felt like she was flying. As he drove up into her with renewed urgency he lifted her breasts clear of the water, taking first one, then the other of her nipples in his mouth, trapping them between his teeth and tongue, sucking greedily.
When he felt the now familiar sensations of her mounting second orgasm, he looked up at her. ‘Leave your pretty blue eyes open this time. I want to see them when you come.’ As he felt her again, he joined her, filling her completely.
Afterwards, they showered together in the flat at the rear of the garage and she slept with him, pressed close in the single bed. They left the sheet off, and let the ceiling fan cool them and blow the mosquitos away. Sannie slept, her head pillowed on his chest hair, but Tom lay awake for most of the night, one hand crooked under his head.
She woke in the pre-dawn and stretched like a contented cat. He smiled at and kissed her. Her hand moved, seemingly by its own accord, to his rising erection.
‘Do you really have to go off on this trip by yourself?’
‘Yes, baby.’
Elise’s attitude towards him softened slowly over the following three days. Perhaps, Tom thought as he stacked the camping fridge–freezer in the back of the Land Rover with frozen steak, boerewors and a six-pack of Castle, it was because Sannie’s mother knew he would soon be out of their lives.
Still, she’d been helpful, taking him to the local supermarket and butcher, and pointing out an auto spares shop where he’d bought extra oil, filters, a fan belt and radiator hoses. He got the gas bottles filled, and made the bed in the rooftop tent with clean linen and a blanket. He sorted his clothes, leaving some behind at Sannie’s, and bought an extra pair of shorts and a khaki bush shirt for the road. It was Friday afternoon and he was ready to go. When Elise returned home after picking up Christo and Ilana from school, Tom started packing her ageing Toyota Condor people-mover for the weekend trip to Kruger.
‘I can help,’ Christo said, standing beside him in his school shirt and shorts, minus shoes.
‘Good man.’ Tom could have packed the wagon more quickly by himself, but he sorted small boxes and cooler bags for the boy to carry and let him pack things where he wanted to in the boot. He would have to learn some day, Tom thought. They chatted about soccer and television shows as they worked, and Tom, to his surprise, found himself laughing at a couple of jokes the boy made and generally enjoying his company.
‘Are you coming back here after your holiday, Tom?’ Christo asked as he hefted his own small backpack full of clothes into the Condor.
‘Yes, I have to bring your dad’s truck back.’
‘No, are you coming to stay with us?’ At that moment Elise appeared from the back door, a picnic basket in one hand. She stopped to listen.
Tom sighed. What to say? He pushed the cold box to the back of the cargo area and wiped his hands on his shorts. He looked down at the boy. ‘Would you like me to come and stay?’
It was Christo’s turn to ponder his answer for a moment. He nodded his head.
‘I forgot something,’ Elise said, and turned back to the kitchen.
Before Tom could speak to Elise, Sannie arrived, honking the horn of her Mercedes as the electric gate rolled open. ‘Hey, man! I thought you guys would be packed already,’ she chided. She kissed Christo and smiled at Tom, then ran inside, pausing only to kick off her high heels. ‘I’ll be changed in ten minutes, and you’d better be ready!’
Sannie had finished work early, at one o’clock, but even so they had to drive hard to get to the park before the entrance gates closed at six. The Land Rover blew blue smoke for the first half-hour, but eventually the long-dormant engine warmed up and Tom found he could coax it up to a hundred and ten. Sannie had suggested that Elise could drive the children in the Condor and that she would ride with Tom, in case he needed directions. ‘The kids have hardly seen you for a week, Sannie,’ Elise reminded her.
Tom thought her mother had made a good call. Besides, he needed to get used to navigating himself around Africa. Sannie soon outstripped him on the motorway, easily sitting on a hundred and twenty. Via her cell phone, she told him that they would go on ahead and start setting up at Pretoriuskop camp. Tom assured her that he could read a map well enough to find her.
It was the same road he and Sannie had driven together from Johannesburg to Tinga Legends, on the recce trip before Greeves’s abduction. It seemed like a lifetime ago and, in a sense, it was. Tom’s old life was over. No job, no future – at least not in England. He considered this. No, he told himself, it wasn’t quite over yet.
When he passed the hi-jacking hotspot warning signs near Witbank he felt a pang of concern for Sannie and her family. However, Sannie had her Z88 service pistol with her, and she had given Tom her private firearm, a nine-millimetre South African-made RAP 401, a compact semiautomatic. Its short barrel made it easy to conceal, but the eight-round magazine was less than half the capacity of the Glock he would have been carrying if he was still on the job. Tom had hoped that she would offer him a firearm. One of the reasons he wanted to drive to Malawi, rather than fly, was so he could carry a weapon. He hadn’t told Sannie of his ulterior motive.
He broke his first law of the trip when he arrived at the Numbi Gate entrance. He should have declared the pistol, but did not. He had it stashed in the toolbox under a mountain of gear in the back of the Land Rover. Over the next two days he would find a better hiding spot for it for when he had to start crossing borders. Sannie had gone through the motions of asking him why he thought he needed to take a gun with him out of South Africa, but had given up in the face of his silence. She’d given him two spare magazines and a box of bullets as well.
On the short drive to Pretoriuskop camp from the gate he slowed and stopped to watch a white rhino grazing by the side of the road. It ignored him, contentedly munching away on the short green grass that had sprung up in a burnt patch of bush with the first rains of the season. On its back was a tiny bird with a red bill. An oxpecker. The animal’s askari, as Sannie had called it. Tom had no one to guard any more, and the feeling was liberating in a way. He was here for himself and no one else. Ironically, his very next thought was of Sannie and her kids. He checked the time on his watch and made it in through the wooden gates of the rest camp with only minutes to spare before the curfew kicked in.
The rest camp consisted of a camping area and rows of bungalows, ranging from small rondavels, as Sannie called them, to larger, self-contained houses which would sleep a family of six. There were plenty of mature trees and the lawns were green and well kept, with some help, no doubt, from the trio of warthog that darted across the road in front of Tom’s Land Rover, their tails pointing straight up like antennae.
He found Sannie, Elise and the children at the top end of the camping ground, which occupied a series of terraces down one side of the complex. An electric fence, reinforced with thick metal cables to keep elephant at bay, surrounded the encampment.
‘Did you see the rhino?’ Ilana asked him.
He bent over and assured her that he had. The little girl had been warming to him over the past couple of days and he felt bad that he would soon disappear, as had the last man in her life. Sannie finished hammering in a tent peg, and stood and wiped her brow. She had made short work of setting up the nylon dome tent in which she, Elise and the kids would all sleep. She wore camouflage shorts, and a stretchy orange tank top that revealed her flat belly when she stretched and yawned.
With some direction from Sannie and the kids, Tom soon had his fold-out rooftop tent erected for the first time. It looked cosy, and he thought it would be even cosier if during the night S
annie climbed up the ladder to join him.
Tom engaged Elise while Sannie took the kids to shower, asking her to instruct him on the finer points of barbecuing – or braaiing, as the South Africans called it. He’d made a few attempts in his tiny back yard in London and on holidays in Spain, but none that could be classed as overwhelmingly successful, he told her. Elise laughed and talked him through the basics of lighting the fire, waiting for it to die down to glowing coals and then adjusting the circular grid which moved up and down on a metal pole attached to the wok-like fire tray. It seemed simple enough.
He cooked, with gentle encouragement and advice from Sannie and Christo, and the steaks weren’t nearly as burned as they might have been. It had been a long day for all of them, especially Sannie, and they were all in their tents by nine.
Tom lay in his rooftop bed and listened to the noises of the bush – the squeak of bats, the screech of an owl, the comfortingly familiar croak of frogs in the nearby dam. Far off, he heard the low groans of a lion calling to his pride. Sleep came slowly.
Sannie woke him at four, and chivvied him out of bed and into the Condor. At this time of year the camp gates opened at four-thirty. Elise was staying in camp, but Sannie and the kids were determined to go out and try to find the lion who had been calling again in the pre-dawn dark, closer to camp. They found him, no more than a kilometre away, lying on the bitumen road, still calling. He lowered his head and thrust out his snout, as if to squeeze every last little note out of his huge lungs. It felt to Tom like the metal panels on the Toyota’s sides were vibrating.
They drove to Skukuza, where Sannie had introduced him to Isaac Tshabalala. It brought back bad memories for Tom, but galvanised him for the long journey ahead. Sannie bought the kids burgers and ice cream for lunch and they all swam in a pool in a picnic site, located down the road from the camp on the banks of the Sabie River. It was, Tom noted, the same river that Tinga Lodge overlooked. As much as he enjoyed pretending he was part of Sannie’s happy family life, he found that he was itching to get on his way.
‘You’re distant,’ she said to him as they sat alone by the evening campfire. On Saturday night there was a wildlife documentary video screening at Pretoriuskop camp’s open-air cinema, and Elise had taken the kids so Sannie could have some private time with Tom. Hyenas whooped and cackled in the distance, but the noise was on the big screen.
He nodded.
‘Are you going to tell me or not?’
He looked at her. Every new angle, every nuance of the day’s lighting, seemed to reveal more of her beauty to him. Bathed in the orange glow of the fire it seemed as if the warmth he felt radiated from within her rather than from the smouldering coals. Part of him wanted just to hold her and let his body dissolve into hers.
She persisted through his silence, her exasperation rising. ‘Look, think of me. I’m still on the fringes of the investigation. If you’ve got a new lead, then tell me! I’ll give you a head start on this wild-goose chase you’re on, but if you find them you’ll need back-up. I can’t get a team of recce commandos to you with fifteen minutes’ notice, you know. What do you know about these terrorists that we don’t, Tom, that the British government doesn’t?’
‘If I find out anything new, I’ll call you,’ was all he said. He didn’t want her with him. He didn’t want to get her excited. He didn’t want her actions, no matter how well intentioned, to tip off his prey. For all those reasons, and for her protection and the future of her kids, he couldn’t tell her anything.
‘There’s no point risking your life on a private vendetta, Tom. The man you were sent to protect is buried in some unmarked grave in Mozambique. Even if you find the killers, it won’t bring Greeves back, or even resurrect your career. You must know that! Get it through your head, Tom – the man is dead!’
Tom’s face betrayed nothing – certainly not the one thing he was completely and utterly sure of.
Robert Greeves was still alive.
27
Tom eased his way into Africa.
Kruger was a National Geographic channel idyll of wildlife and scenery. He travelled north, leaving Sannie and her family behind to pack up and head back to Johannesburg. His mood altered with the changing landscape.
The south of the park was characterised by thick, dense bush, and plenty of humans on the road, in private cars and open-top safari vehicles. He was irritable as he inched around a traffic jam parked beside a rhino, but he realised part of the source of his frustration was leaving Sannie behind. Also, little Christo and Ilana had plainly been disappointed at his departure. He felt bad about having raised their expectations that there would be a new man around the house. He’d wondered what it would be like becoming a stepfather. It might have scared him if the kids hadn’t been so much fun and so well behaved – they were a credit to Sannie and the father they’d known so briefly. He pushed the thoughts of parenthood from his mind.
As he moved north, both the bush and the crowds thinned. Open grasslands replaced the long grass and thornbushes of the southern part of the park. He was gradually leaving what passed for civilisation, with all its attendant responsibilities, rules and commitments. For the first time in twenty years he was accountable to no one except himself. He missed Sannie, but he was free, too, to concentrate on the mission ahead.
He stopped at Satara camp, in the middle of the park, and camped near the perimeter fence. A trio of old male buffalos settled down to sleep just on the other side of the wire. Tom wondered if they thought they would be safer there, close to the camp. In the distance a lion lullabied him to sleep. He was getting more used to Africa by the day.
The next morning he rose early, but not to go in search of wild animals. He took the sealed road west from Satara to another of Kruger’s gates, Orpen. He checked his map of the park, which also included the private game reserves adjoining the national park. Wealthy South Africans had bought up land on the border of the public park during the apartheid years and developed a network of private reserves, run along similar lines to the national park but for personal gain. In the past, a fence had separated public from private land, but this had come down in recent years, allowing animals to migrate freely from Kruger into these adjoining lands. Some of the properties had been developed commercially, with lodges charging premium rates for foreign visitors to experience a luxury safari, while other tracts were held by individuals for their private use at weekends and holidays.
He passed a township called Acornhoek, then turned on to a dirt road which took him deeper into the private reserves. Eventually, he came to the entrance to the Timbavati private game reserve, which resembled one of the gates into Kruger. Timbavati had its own rangers, turned out in smart, pressed uniforms; its own rules; and its own entry fees. He paid his money, explaining that he was heading for Doctor Khan’s property, and that he was an invited guest. This was a lie, but the security guard didn’t question him. He also asked for directions to the late doctor’s property – which still didn’t arouse the man’s suspicion – saying that while he had permission to visit he had never been there before.
Tom passed an open-top Land Rover game viewer and waved to the driver and his tourists. He followed signs on stone cairns and turned off the main road through the reserve, to the left. According to the guard, Doctor Khan’s place was six and a half kilometres further along.
He set the trip meter and came to an unmarked turn-off guarded by a lone bull elephant who was using his broad forehead to push over a stout-looking tree. Sannie had told Tom that elephants did that to feed on the roots and, sometimes, just to get at some leaves that would otherwise have been out of reach. He had no time to watch the mighty creature, so he geared down and continued along the deteriorating track. He put the Land Rover into low-range four-wheel drive to negotiate a dried-out sandy river crossing and planted the accelerator to climb up the steep opposing bank.
The lodge, when at last it came into view, was simple but stylish. Thatch roof, single storey, with whit
ewashed walls, rendered and painted a tan brown. There was also a thatched outdoor dining and bar area, with no walls on three sides, overlooking a small pumped waterhole on the other side of the river – presumably the same one he had just crossed. A sole buffalo was drinking from the concrete pond. Tom stopped the Land Rover and got out, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs and feel a cool breeze on the damp back of his shirt. The airconditioning in the Land Rover either hadn’t been gassed for years or wasn’t working.
‘Hello?’ He walked to the shady lounge area and looked around. There was no dust on the two tables or the wooden bar top. A glass-door fridge, secured with a chain and padlock, held a wide selection of beers and wine. Behind metal grilles in a cupboard over the bar was an equally impressive selection of spirits, including some expensive single malt Scotches. On the wall on either side of the drinks cabinets were photos set in tasteful, though rustic, wooden frames. There were shots of all of the big five – lion, elephant, rhino, leopard and buffalo; a picture of a swarthy but dapper-looking man Tom took to be Doctor Khan kneeling beside a dead buffalo and resting on a hunting rifle; and another of the sun setting over a glassy body of water. The sunset was framed by a latticed arch, dripping with bougainvillea, which led the way to a narrow strip of white sand.
‘Morning, sir, can I help you?’ An elderly black man appeared from behind the house. He wore blue overalls and wiped his hands on them as he walked over.
Tom turned from the photographs and pulled his wallet out of his shorts. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Tom Furey, from the London Metropolitan Police. I’m here in relation to the disappearance of Doctor Khan.’
