Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4)

by A. J. Quinnell

  Two hours later, Creasy was chewing on the scorched haunch of an impala, and listening as Maxie spoke in a strange language to the two Africans sitting across the fire.

  They had lain in an outcrop of rocks as the sun went down, watching as the two Batongka tribesmen returned to their camp. One carried an impala doe over his shoulder, and the other, two small duikers under his arms. The one with the impala carried a rifle in his left hand. They had watched as the animals were expertly skinned and the skins hung up to dry over the branches of a nearby tree. The rifle had been leant against the trunk of that tree.

  The Africans had just begun to light their fire, when Maxie passed the two rifles to Creasy, took off his shirt and walked in a semicircle towards the fire, his arms held away from his body. They spotted him when a hyena scuttled away from a clump of bushes. Immediately, one of them ran to the tree and the rifle.

  Creasy lined him up in the sights of the 300.06; but it had not been necessary to fire. Maxie called out in Batongka, He lifted his arms horizontally to the ground. The African with the rifle held it with the barrel pointing to the ground, and Maxie walked forward, talking confidently and reassuringly.

  They turned out to be two brothers. As soon as Maxie assured them that he would not report them to the authorities, they welcomed him and Creasy to their camp, and from their ex-army rucksacks pulled out a goatskin gourd containing a local brew made from fermented bananas. By the time it had been passed round the campfire a few times, the mood was mellow.

  Maxie talked and translated each sentence for Creasy’s benefit.

  ‘We are here because of the murders of the two white people near here, a few weeks ago.’

  The elder brother, who was old enough to have greying hair, nodded solemnly. ‘It was a bad thing, and also for us. There were police and trackers all over the area and we could not go hunting for at least two weeks.’

  ‘Do you make a living from your hunting?’ Maxie asked.

  The grey-haired African shook his head.

  ‘Not what you’d call a living. We sell the meat for very little, and once a month a man comes from Bulawayo and takes the skins. We get fifty cents for a good impala skin and we know he sells it for three dollars back in Bulawayo.’

  ‘Why don’t they sell them themselves in Bulawayo?’ Creasy asked.

  ‘Because the bus trip to Bulawayo could cost them a couple of dollars plus two wasted days. Even if they could find a dealer there,’ Maxie told Creasy. He turned back to the older man and asked, ‘Do you know anything about who might have shot those two people?’

  Twin shields came down over the older man’s eyes as he shook his head. He glanced nervously at his brother.

  ‘We know nothing. The police came to our village and questioned everybody.’

  ‘We are not the police,’ Maxie replied. ‘And whatever we learn, we will not tell them about it.’

  The African shook his head.

  ‘We know nothing. We were not in the area at that time. The police had their own trackers and they could find nothing because there had been a big rain in the morning, and by then the killer would have gone.’

  As Maxie translated that sentence, something clicked in Creasy’s head. He reached out and tapped Maxie’s wrist and asked, ‘Are you sure he said killer and not killers?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Creasy looked at the fire, deep in thought, and then said, ‘From your experience, how often would these two men be poaching in the bush?’

  Maxie immediately got his drift and answered, ‘Very frequently and only in this specific area, because there would be several poachers in the village and all of them would have their own patch. I know that from my days in the Selous.’

  Creasy was nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘And being poachers, albeit small-time, they would be on the look-out for any human tracks, in case game rangers might be in the area.’

  ‘They would,’ Maxie agreed.

  Creasy reached down and felt for the slit at the back of his belt, eased out the gold Krugerrand and tossed it across the fire between the two brothers.

  They glanced down as it lay, glittering in the firelight. Five years’ work. Slowly their gaze lifted to look at Maxie, who said, ‘That’s to pay for our meal and the drink.’

  They looked at each other again, then it was the younger brother who spoke, ‘Who sent you here?’

  ‘The mother of the murdered girl,’ Maxie answered. ‘She owns a million cows.’ He pointed with his chin at the gold coin. ‘And maybe a million of those. She wants vengeance on the man who killed her daughter.’

  For a long time, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the laugh of a distant hyena and Creasy, munching on his impala haunch as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Then, very slowly, the older brother reached down and picked up the gold coin and tucked it into the pocket of his frayed khaki shorts. He glanced again at his brother who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  He said to Maxie, ‘There is a man who hunts here. He has done so for many years. He hunts for the leopard and for cheetah. He does it for his pleasure, not for money. We know his tracks well . . . he smokes cigarettes which cost much money.’

  ‘He is an African?’ Maxie asked.

  ‘He is not black,’ came the answer. Then he gestured to his left, down the lake. ‘He comes and goes from that direction.’

  Maxie translated that for Creasy and said, ‘He must come from Binga and, for sure, he’s a white man. This man knows more than he’s saying. They are very cautious people. If that man has been hunting leopard and cheetah for many years here, they will have seen him. Only white men smoke expensive cigarettes.’

  ‘Press him,’ Creasy said.

  Maxie turned again to the older brother, ‘Have you seen this man?’ he asked.

  ‘Look beyond Binga,’ the African said. ‘But not much beyond. Just about five k’s.’

  Maxie translated that and then added, ‘There are very few white people living in Binga on a permanent basis. Some missionaries, American Peace Corps workers and doctors at the regional hospital. Five k’s beyond Binga there are some holiday cottages owned by wealthy whites out at Bulawayo. There are two or three other white families who farm crocodiles and have Kapenta fishing licences . . . We’ll find our man there.’

  ‘How long to get there?’ Creasy asked.

  ‘It’s a two-day trek.’

  The younger brother had passed the gourd back to Creasy. He took a swig and decided that it was definitely an acquired taste. He passed the gourd on to Maxie, saying, ‘So we leave at first light.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘My name is N’Kuku Lovu . . . but you can call me Monday.’ Michael could not keep the surprise from his face and the grey-haired African laughed and explained. ‘Under the white man’s rule, every black child born in Rhodesia had to have a pronounceable English Christian name to go on to the birth certificate together with a tribal name. I was born in the remote province of Binga, sixty years ago, and the clerk who registered my birth did not have much imagination. Since I was born on a Monday, I was called Monday.’

  Michael smiled and remarked, 'It’s as good a name as any . . . and not one to forget.’

  They were sitting in an elegant office on the fifteenth floor of a modern building in central Harare. Michael was dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt and flip-flops, and was slightly cold within the air conditioning. His host wore a perfectly cut grey, pin-striped suit with a blue shirt and a cream tie.

  The African leaned back in his chair and gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling window across the skyline of Harare. Then slowly his eyes moved back to Michael and he said, ‘I asked you to come here to receive my thanks for saving my wayward son from at least a terrible beating and maybe even death. In many ways he is a pride to his father, but he has a weakness for women. Perhaps he will have learned something from what happened last night.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Michael agreed, it was about three years
ago that I found myself in a similar situation or worse . . . it was also because of a teasing woman. It sure as hell taught me a lesson. But, Monday, the person you should really thank is Shavi,’

  ‘I have already done so.’

  A silence developed. The African was in deep thought. When Michael had entered the office, two minutes earlier, the African had pressed a button on his intercom and instructed his secretary that he was not to be interrupted until further notice. Since he was obviously a busy man, Michael assumed that, having received his thanks, he should leave. But, as he started to rise, the African held up a hand.

  ‘I should have invited you to my home so that my wife could have also thanked you, but I thought it not a good idea that you should come to my home,’ He gestured at the office around him and went on, I must tell you also that this is not my own office. That is in the penthouse . . . I own this building . . . I have borrowed this office from a friend for this meeting.’

  Michael had settled himself back into his chair. The African smiled and pointed to a cabinet in the corner. ‘But I know that is a well-stocked bar. What can I get you?’

  It was late afternoon. Michael thought for a moment and said, ‘A gin and tonic would go down well.’

  The African glanced at his watch, smiled and said, ‘I will join you with that, but if you ever meet my wife, be sure not to mention that I’ve been drinking before sundown.’

  As Michael took the first sip of his drink, the African looked at him across the rim of his own glass and stated, ‘They are planning to kill you.’

  Michael lowered his glass and asked quietly, ‘Because of last night?’

  The African shook his head.

  ‘Oh, no, those from last night are small people with small minds and you frightened them very much. The people who want to kill you are big people with wide minds and much power.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Again, the African’s brooding eyes were looking out over the skyline. Michael waited patiently until the African had made his decision. Monday N’Kuku started to talk about his business. He had grown up in the Zambezi Valley and had been educated at a mission school. Both the school and his village had to be relocated when the mighty Kariba dam had been built and Lake Kariba formed. As a boy, he had managed to get a job on a white farm. It paid only subsistence wages and the farmer had been brutal, and so Monday N’Kuku had formed an early hatred for white people.

  That hatred had lasted five years until the white farmer had sold out to another white farmer when the troubles had started. His new boss had been a totally different human being. He had shown kindness to his black workers and they had responded and the farm had prospered. Every white farm had a small village that housed its workforce. The new boss had spent some of his profits in improving that village, by installing running water and electricity. He had arranged for his workers to be medically examined once a month. The boss’s wife had started a kindergarten, with lessons for the young children at the farm village. She quickly discovered that Monday N’Kuku had a basic education and so, at the age of twenty, he had been brought in from the fields to run that kindergarten. His new boss and his wife encouraged other white farmers in the area to send the black children of their workers to attend what soon became a small school. Monday N’Kuku was sent to Bulawayo to study to become a real teacher. Four years later, he had returned to the school. But he had only stayed two years. The boss’s wife had recognised his intelligence and one evening had simply told him to go to Bulawayo to see a man called John Elliot, who owned a factory making and selling fencing materials. John Elliot had given him a job as a very junior clerk. During the next twenty years, Monday N’Kuku had worked hard and risen to be sales manager of the entire company. He had also obtained a wife and three children and a small house in an African township. Michael listened patiently as the African described the troubles that came with Ian Smith’s declaration of Independence from Britain and the war that followed. The owner of the factory decided to sell up and move to South Africa. Monday N’Kuku did not like the new owners. He had saved some money and so he resigned, moved to Harare, which was then called Salisbury and opened his own small business, selling machinery to farmers, both black and white. The business had prospered and as the war for black liberation intensified, Monday N’Kuku had the wisdom to start donating money to the eventual victors. He was well rewarded and, five years after black rule, he was one of the wealthiest black businessmen in the country, with very powerful connections both inside and outside the government.

  He finished his story by saying, ‘It has been the rule all my life always to pay my debts. It has been a good rule and I will continue to follow it. So now I have to repay my debt to you, but in doing so I cannot compromise others. Of course, like everybody else, I know what you are doing here and your father and his Selous Scout friend, MacDonald, and the American lady paymaster, Mrs Manners. I know the whole story because we are a village and I am in the centre of the village.’ He smiled. ‘We sit in air-conditioned luxury in a Westernised world, but the old tribal drums still beat. You are a white man . . . you cannot hear them. But the drums tell me that very soon some people will try to kill you and your whole party.’

  ‘Who are those people?’ Michael asked.

  Again, a silent survey of the skyline of Harare, and then the grey-haired African said, ‘We have criminals in Harare. Very many. Some small and some big. Among the big ones are a gang who carry out assassinations for money.’ He smiled again slightly, 'I suppose you could call them mercenaries. Most of them came out of the war to find no place in our new society. They are led by a man I know well. Ostensibly, he is a businessman, but that is just a cover. He has political protection from certain quarters but, of course, so do I. Early this morning, his gang was hired to murder Mrs Gloria Manners, yourself and your father and MacDonald.’ He smiled again, ‘It will be difficult in the extreme to find your father and the Selous Scout, because they have gone into the bush, and even though they are white men, they are both men who know the bush. After last night, I also realise that you would not be an easy target . . . but Mrs Manners in her wheelchair at the Azambezi Hotel will be very exposed . . . I know that two members of that gang took the lunchtime flight to Bulawayo. From there it’s a four hour drive to Victoria Falls. You can be sure that they will make their move on Mrs Manners sometimes tonight.’ He paused and watched Michael’s face and could almost see his brain working. Then he continued, ‘The beating drums also tell me that Commander John Ndlovu is cooperating with Mrs Manners and her people, due to pressure from the American government. He is an honest and efficient policeman.’ He pointed at the phone on the desk. ‘That phone is secure. I suggest you phone John Ndlovu immediately and have him put tight security on Mrs Manners.’

  Michael looked at the phone and then shook his head. He asked, ‘Who hired this gang of assassins and why?’

  Monday N’Kuku leaned forward and said very quietly, ‘A man from Binga, from where I came from. A white man called Rolph Becker. His father came from South Africa many years ago, and settled and eventually died in the Zambezi Valley. His father was my first boss, who used to beat me as a fourteen-year-old, to give him pleasure. I hated his father and I hate Rolph Becker and I hate Becker’s son, Karl, who thinks he is a bush man and who yesterday morning left the family home at Binga and went into the bush.’ He pointed again at the phone. ‘Now call Commander John Ndlovu.’

  ‘Why did Becker hire this gang of assassins?’

  The African shrugged.

  ‘There is no proof to show that Becker arranged the killing of Mrs Manners’ daughter and her boyfriend Coppen, but since he has now hired people to kill you all, you might say the circumstantial evidence points to him being behind those first murders. Now, phone John Ndlovu.’

  Again, Michael shook his head. He said, ‘If I phone John Ndlovu, he’ll want to know how I got that information. He will certainly want to talk to me and could detain me at a time when I need to move
quickly.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Monday conceded. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to ask a favour of you,’ Michael answered, ‘I want you to arrange for John Ndlovu to receive an anonymous telephone tip-off from somebody speaking Shona. Then, for sure, he’ll arrange tight security on Mrs Manners.’

  The African thought for a moment and then said, ‘That’s no problem. You’re right. The Azambezi Lodge will be swarming with policemen. I’m sure Ndlovu has already arranged security, but after that phone-call it will be doubled or tripled. But what about you?’

  Michael was thinking. He was trying to think as Creasy would think. He went through the options. He could simply fly to Vic Falls and wait for Creasy and Maxie to come out of the bush. He could, of course, go and see John Ndlovu and tell him what he had learned without divulging his source, and then Ndlovu would definitely bring the Beckers in for questioning, but there would be no proof. He went through the facts of the situation and what he knew. Within the hour, Gloria Manners would be totally protected. Yesterday, Karl Becker had gone into the bush, presumably looking for Creasy and Maxie. He looked up at the African and asked, ‘What can you tell me about this man Karl Becker?’

  Monday thought about it for a moment and then answered, ‘He comes from a long line of evil men. As I said before, I have been involved with that family and it was not pleasant. But Karl Becker is the most evil of them all. He enjoys hurting people . . . and, above all, killing them. Age or sex matters not. Better still, if they are black.’

  ‘How good is he in the bush?’

  ‘Very good indeed, for a white man.’

  ‘As good as Maxie MacDonald?’

  The African smiled.

  ‘Becker is a good amateur, but MacDonald was a Selous Scout and therefore is a total professional. Do you play football, Michael?’