Far Horizon

by Tony Park

  ‘Anyway, the upshot is,’ Mike said in conclusion, ‘that the tour is cancelled. My boss is arranging flights for everyone from Lusaka in Zambia, and those of you who can’t get out immediately will be put up in a hotel until we can get you on a flight.’

  ‘You endangered us, Mike. I can’t believe you’d do that!’ Jane Muir said when he had finished. She had one arm wrapped protectively around Julie’s shoulders. The daughter, too, regarded Mike with an accusing stare.

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ Sam said, rising to Mike’s defence.

  As much as he appreciated the young American’s words, Mike knew he was not entirely correct. ‘No, Sam, it is my fault. I could have stopped the tour earlier or told the cops to shove their request for help.’

  ‘What will happen to you?’ Mel asked.

  ‘I’m taking the truck back to South Africa.’

  ‘Will you be OK? Won’t the poachers still be looking for you?’ Kylie inquired.

  ‘The cops tell me the poachers are bugging out. Don’t ask me how they know, because I don’t know the answer. It seemed they were scared off after the action last night, and at least they failed to kill a rhino.’

  Mike climbed into the driver’s cab, alone, and started the engine. Above the noise of the diesel engine he could hear murmured conversations from the rear cab punctuated by the occasional angry outburst. He felt frustrated and restless as he drove back to the camping ground to pick up Sarah.

  He fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it as he drove. He should never have agreed to help Theron in the first place, he told himself. Worse still was the fact that Hess and Orlov had escaped, unscathed. He had risked his job and many lives for no result at all, in a fanciful search for revenge.

  During the night, as they had sped across Lake Kariba in the dark, the adrenaline still clouding his mind, Mike had thought of revisiting the safari guide, Gerald O’Flynn, to see if he could account for his clients’ whereabouts during the shooting spree. Now, in the sober light of day, he couldn’t be bothered with any more amateur detective work. However, he’d relayed his suspicions about Hess and Orlov to the police and given them Flynn’s name as a possible lead.

  Now, as should have been the case all along, his first priority had to be the tourists under his care. He had to get across the border and into Zambia as soon as possible. His head ached from a lack of sleep and the cigarette was not helping. He needed a dozen cold beers and as many hours’ sleep.

  26

  ‘Karl, what a surprise,’ Gerald O’Flynn said as he opened the front door of his dilapidated two-bedroom house, leaving the screen door locked.

  Flynn’s house was set in a quiet spot, just the way the bushman liked it, on the side of a hill overlooking Lake Kariba, off the road that led to the Cutty Sark Hotel and Marina. Mopani and leadwood trees surrounded the house, and wildlife, including lion and leopard, occasionally strayed out of the bush onto the unfenced property. But here stood the most dangerous predator Flynn had ever seen.

  ‘Not going to invite me in, Flynn?’ Hess asked, baring his perfect white teeth.

  ‘Tell me why I should, Karl?’ Flynn asked from the other side of the holed flyscreen door. ‘The police called this morning. Said they’re coming around to interview me later today. Why would that be, do you think? And why are you here again? You crossed over to Zambia yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘So I did, but I had some unfinished business to take care of on this side of the lake.’ Hess was dressed in a stone-washed, short-sleeved khaki shirt and matching trousers. ‘You tell me why the police would be after you.’

  ‘Something about an incident that happened over in the Matusadona last night after we left. Maybe you can tell me about it?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Flynn,’ Hess said, though this was exactly what he had feared.

  Orlov had argued with him earlier in the morning, pleading with him not to return to Zimbabwe, and for them both to get to Lusaka airport as soon as possible. The Russian had telephoned British Airways and brought the date of his flight forward, eager to be out of Africa. But Hess wanted to make sure there were no loose ends that could incriminate them.

  Hess needed to know who had tipped off the Parks authorities the night before. It was possible, he conceded, that the only reason the hunt had been foiled was because that fool of a poacher had allowed himself to be captured by the park rangers. However, on their reconnaissance Hess and his team had been told there would be only one armed guard looking after the rhinos at night. As it turned out, there had been two, plus the unknown man and woman who had been with the rangers. He had no idea who they were and could not place them from the brief glimpses he had caught of them through the rifle’s nightscope. On Hess’s orders, Klaus had organised one of the poachers to ferry the hunter across the lake by high-speed motorboat. Now Flynn had confirmed that the authorities believed that he and Orlov, Flynn’s clients, had been involved in the night’s failed hunt.

  ‘Who else knew you were taking my colleague and me to the Matusadona? Had you been talking around town?’

  The change of tack confused Flynn momentarily. His mind, still foggy from last night’s whisky, turned laboriously as he scanned his memory of the preceding few days. ‘You worried other people might know you’re in town, Karl?’ he asked, buying himself more time.

  Hess smiled again, an attempt at charm that reminded Flynn of a crocodile basking on a mud bank. ‘Come now, Flynn, we’re old friends. You know my clients demand a certain amount of discretion. Who else knew about our trip?’

  Flynn remembered now. An Australian, a long-haired fellow. He had been at the bar when Hess called to change his plans. He recalled writing Hess’s name and the date and time of his arrival on a beer mat. The Australian had asked about rhinos, maybe even about Hess at the time.

  Hess saw the unmistakable look of recollection in the safari guide’s eyes.

  When Gerald O’Flynn had seen the speedboat pull into the shore below his house and Hess step onto land, he had quickly pulled his old British Army Webley revolver from its usual resting place under the yellow-stained pillow on his unmade bed. He had stuffed the heavy pistol in the waistband of his baggy green shorts and it rested uncomfortably at the base of his back now.

  Flynn turned, looking back down the narrow corridor behind him, considering running instead of fighting. Hess reached around himself with his right hand to the small of his back and unsnapped the cover of the short, wickedly sharp hunting knife in its pouch.

  ‘Karl, there was no one, no one else knew,’ Flynn stammered. He started to turn, reaching behind his back as he did.

  Hess glimpsed the wooden grip of the old firearm and his arm flashed in an arc, faster than a striking mamba. The knife’s curved stainless-steel blade pierced the ragged flyscreen and then the shirt, skin, muscle and heart of Gerald O’Flynn.

  The pistol fell from Flynn’s grip and clattered to the floor. Hess punched his free hand through a tear in the flyscreen and grabbed Flynn’s collar, holding the older man up and twisting the knife deeper in.

  ‘Bastard . . .’ Flynn gasped.

  ‘Tell me, you stupid old fool, who did you blab to?’

  Gerald O’Flynn, soldier, hunter and big-game guide felt his life force draining away. Many times during an existence of danger and adventure, he had wondered what this moment would feel like, and what final words he would utter when his time came.

  With the last reserves of energy available to him he forced a smile. Then, in silence, he died.

  27

  Sarah was brimming with excitement as they crossed the border into Zambia and started the long, tortuous climb up the escarpment on the other side of the Zambezi River. Unlike the Zimbabwe side, where elephant, buffalo, zebra and various antelope species were often seen around town, the Zambian bush was devoid of wildlife, thanks to decades of unchecked poaching. She busied herself in the back of the cab, taking portrait shots of the other travellers
and making notes of their names, ages, occupations and backgrounds.

  He could already imagine the break-out stories being picked up by wire services around the world: ‘American tourist in African firefight’ or ‘New Zealander narrowly escapes injury in battle with poachers’. That sort of thing. Mike cringed at the thought of his photo being beamed to newspapers everywhere, and he wondered how Rian would react.

  Mike was surprised by how much his brief fling with Sarah – for that was how he was determined to remember it – had meant to him. Jane had reawoken the sexual feelings he had suppressed after Isabella’s death, but Sarah had rekindled something else. After they made love he had drifted off to sleep with the thought that from now on there could be nothing better in the entire universe than to lie down next to this woman every night and wake up next to her every morning, no matter where in the world they were.

  Once they reached the top of the escarpment and the countryside levelled out, they made better time. The road to Lusaka was in good condition for a Zambian road, and they raced on through the hot, slanting mid-afternoon sun, past the turn-off to the spectacular Kafue Gorge, where the river of the same name cut its way down to the Zambezi.

  Mike longed to slow down and show these beautiful places to Sarah, to stop at roadside fruit stalls and buy newly ripened bananas, to sip cold Zambian Mosi beers while watching a lingering sunset. He wanted the pair of them to giggle at the antics of shy African children pushing toy cars made out of wound fencing wire along dusty side tracks, to introduce her to African music and to have their fortunes told by a village sangoma. But she was going back to her world, to a world of deadlines and airports and faxes and computers and e-mail. He lit another cigarette and tried to let the whine of the engine drown out his thoughts.

  Lusaka was a seething mass of suicidal taxis and blind pedestrians, all determined to raise Mike’s ire and force him continually to bip Nelson’s horn. They stopped and started along the main street, Cairo Road, a wide boulevard split by tree-lined median strips. The street might have been attractive once, he thought, before the build-up of blue-black smoke that blanketed the traffic.

  ‘Fuckin’ idiot!’ he yelled out the open window to the driver of a brand new Mitsubishi Pajero. The man gave Mike the finger as he cut in front of the overlander, forcing him to stand on the brakes.

  They crawled up to a big roundabout and Mike followed the sign to the airport, turning right on to the Great East Road. The buildings dropped in height as they slowly headed back into the flatlands. They passed a big single-storey shopping centre that was surrounded by a high fence and patrolled by an army of security guards, including two at a checkpoint on the gate.

  Too soon, much too soon, they were through town and turning off towards the airport. Mike found a parking space in the half-full car park and turned around to face the group in the rear cab.

  ‘This is it. Last stop.’ His heart was heavy but his tone belied it.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Nigel said.

  ‘What do you mean? Trip’s over, mate,’ Mike said.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Nigel said. ‘A few of us have taken a vote and we’re coming with you. We’ve paid for this trip and we’re not ready to go home yet. Tell your boss to shove his airfares and hotel rooms.’

  ‘We wouldn’t miss the rest of this trip for the world, mate,’ George said. ‘I joined the Territorial Army back home for a bit of action, but I’ve never seen anything like last night.’

  ‘Better than Match of the Day . . . well, almost,’ Terry added.

  ‘Count me in too,’ Kylie said. ‘As long as there’s no more gunfire,’ she added with a nervous laugh.

  ‘We’re staying, right?’ said Linda, looking at Mel, who was sitting next to her.

  ‘Right,’ Mel confirmed.

  Mike held up a hand. ‘Listen, all of you, I’m touched, but I shouldn’t have even let you come this far.’

  ‘But you said the cops had told you the baddies have left,’ Mel said.

  ‘That’s true, but –’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ Sam said. ‘Most of us are in, Mike.’

  Mike nodded, grateful for their understanding. He resolved to make it up to each of them by ensuring they had a fun, safe holiday for the rest of their time together. But not everyone was happy with the way things had panned out.

  ‘Come on, Julie, let’s go,’ Jane said, edging her way between the seats. Julie cast a quick glance at Mike as she followed her mother down the steps, but he couldn’t read the emotions in her face. ‘I can’t stand any more of this musketeer bullshit.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sarah, with a little smile. She bit her lower lip, and then bent her head out of sight to retrieve a daypack from under her seat.

  Everyone else filed out behind Jane and Julie, including Sarah, and the guys helped unload the backpacks and other bags of those who were departing. Hazy waves of baking heat wafted up from the tarmac of the car park and in the distance Mike heard thunder. Black clouds gathered along the horizon and the air was pregnant with moisture. He felt his shirt stick to his back as he climbed down from the driver’s cab.

  Jane and Julie hugged and kissed all the members of the group, including Nigel, but not Sarah, who would be travelling on the same BA flight as them back to England that night. Mike stared idly at the long, three-storey terminal building of Lusaka International Airport. To the left were offices and a dark-brick air traffic control tower bristling with radio aerials. The white concrete section to the right of the building housed the arrival and departure halls and an old-fashioned observation deck, where friends and lovers could wave goodbye. They wouldn’t be staying for lingering farewells, though, as they would have to get back on the road in order to reach a camping site before nightfall.

  Jane had dressed in a matching short khaki skirt and sleeveless blouse for the trip home. She walked towards Mike but stopped out of arm’s reach. ‘Julie’s all I’ve got, Mike, and she means more to me than anything . . . any man. You put us in danger, and I can’t forgive that.’

  She turned her back on Mike and started walking away. He realised she was right. He could have told her that he would miss her, but that would have been lying.

  ‘Have a safe flight,’ he said, as she and Julie walked off.

  Sarah had her backpack on and was saying the last of her goodbyes to the people she had finally got to know, too late to make an impact on them, and vice versa. Except for Mike. Mike was aware of other eyes on them as she walked across to him, stopping close to his chest.

  ‘You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you, Mike?’ she asked, looking up at him and blinking.

  ‘I’ll stay off the main roads for a few days, watch my back, just in case. But I can’t imagine Hess and Orlov would be stupid enough to hang around after last night,’ Mike said.

  He couldn’t put his arms around her while she had her pack on, so he put the fingers of both hands under her chin and raised her face to his. She blinked again and he glimpsed a tear in the corner of each eye.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Mike . . . I’m so sorry. I . . .’

  Mike lowered his face to Sarah’s and kissed her on the mouth. Her lips parted and he tasted the salt of her tears running down her cheeks and into their mouths. Behind them, he was aware of some hooting and whistling. Sarah encircled his neck with slender arms and pulled him closer.

  ‘Bye, Mike. I’ll write,’ she said after a few seconds as she pushed herself gently away.

  Mike started to speak, but a Boeing 767 screamed over their heads on its final approach, drowning him out.

  ‘What?’ she asked, as the roar passed over them.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Have a safe trip.’

  Vassily Orlov was angry and bored. He paced the hall idly looking in the windows of the few duty-free shops in the departure lounge of Lusaka International Airport. His mind was not on cheap cigarettes and whisky – he controlled a large percentage of the distribution of both in Moscow, anyway – it was on the previous night
’s debacle in a Zimbabwean national park.

  Hess, who sat calmly in a plastic chair in the open bar area smoking a cigarette and reading a news magazine, had relayed all that he had learned from his brief trip back across the border into Zimbabwe that morning. While Orlov fretted that the police may be tracking them at this very moment, he reminded himself that apart from having been in a national park with a weapon – a crime no one had seen him commit – he had broken no laws. It had been Hess who had engaged in a running gun battle and wounded, or possibly killed, a park ranger. And still there was the nagging question of how much the authorities actually knew about their identities and their plans.

  Orlov was concerned at Hess’s report that Gerald O’Flynn had been contacted by the police, but satisfied that the Namibian had dealt with that problem in his own inimitable fashion. The death of the guide was another good reason for them both to part company as soon as possible.

  After checking in on the ground floor of the terminal at their respective airline counters, the two men had turned right and passed through Zambian immigration and customs procedures and then headed upstairs to the departure hall without incident. Although neither would admit it to the other, both had feared that at any second armed police would emerge and detain them for questioning. When they had passed through all the checks Orlov had thanked God. Hess had thanked African bureaucracy. At Hess’s insistence they had left all their firearms, even Orlov’s personal hunting rifle he had brought from Russia, with Klaus in the Land Cruiser.

  Orlov was booked on a British Airways flight to London. Hess had purchased a ticket to Nairobi and would later connect to a flight to Windhoek, where he planned to lie low for a week or two before crossing back into South Africa by road at a quiet border post. Klaus would return the four-wheel drive to Jo’burg, ship the hunting rifles to their respective owners and then make his own way back to Hess’s game ranch.