by Tony Park
‘I don’t know. Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way. I just left Nelspruit. I’ll be an hour and a half. Stay with Frankie, the head ranger at the estate. He’s a good oke.’
‘Cameron, be careful.’
‘Just look after yourself and Jess. I’m coming.’
She hugged Jess to her. On her other side Luis held a blood-covered hand to his scalp and stared out the window into the night.
At the gate they were met by a young man with fair hair who introduced himself as Frankie le Roux. ‘I’ve just had a call from Cameron. I’ll take care of you,’ Frankie said. ‘You can wait in my house for him. My wife, Sunelle, will get you some tea or a cool drink if you like. I’m busy right now talking to national parks on the radio. As this man who came to your place is armed and inside the Kruger Park, they are sending up their helicopter to look for him. There is also an army patrol nearby in the park, on anti-rhino poaching duty, so they’re going to get him, I’m sure.’
‘Thank you, I hope so. I really hope so.’
20
Wellington splashed through the waters of the Sabie River, too charged with adrenaline to even care about crocodiles and hippos. He had watched, enraged, as Luis had been clubbed down by a stupid security man and then dragged away. A split second later and he would have been able to kill him and then make good his escape.
He had looked up, as he ran, and seen the woman, Kylie Hamilton, firing at him. She had clearly seen him. If he made it out of this predicament she would die. Spotlights swept the river but he was already in the tree line on the national park’s side. He was running, thornbushes and vines snatching at him.
Wellington paused to catch his breath and thought about where he was going. The quickest way back to his car was through the fence of the abandoned citrus farm, the way he had come, but the ease with which he had been able to use this ingress point told him that it would be known to the authorities as a route used by poachers.
He could move further into the park, hopefully confusing the people who would be mobilising to find him, or he could try to shoot his way out through the farm and the cordon that would soon be put in place.
A far-off noise made him look up. The buzzing was getting louder. He saw the light switch on from above and the looming presence of the helicopter forced his hand. He took out his cellphone and dialled the number he had memorised.
*
Two police cars raced past Cameron, blue lights flashing. At first he feared they were coming after him, as he was clearly speeding.
He had been pushing a hundred and forty through the hilly, sweeping bends between White River and Hazyview, so the cops must have been doing another twenty on top of that, easy. Hopefully they were heading for the same place as him. He pushed down his accelerator and did his best to keep pace with the patrol cars.
As they tore through Mkhulu township, lights on bright and Cameron hoping a stray cow didn’t amble out in front of their high-speed convoy, an unmarked BMW, also sporting a blue light on the dashboard, loomed behind him, flashed him, then overtook him.
The police cars sped past the entrance to Hippo Rock estate and as much as Cameron wanted to be in the thick of the hunt for Wellington Shumba, he pulled into the entrance: his daughter was his number one priority. He showed his ID card at the gate and was ushered through to Frankie le Roux’s house. The ranger and Kylie emerged from the house, and Jess ran around them to hug her father.
Frankie’s radio hissed and he walked a few paces away, speaking in Afrikaans into the walkie-talkie.
‘They’ve got him?’ Cameron asked, still holding Jess.
Frankie nodded. ‘Ja, almost. He’s on the run through the Lisbon estate. The park’s helicopter’s tracking him. He’s running straight into our cordon and the cops have just arrived. Perfect timing.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Cameron, can I have a word?’
Cameron eased himself from Jess’s embrace and she went to Kylie, who, Cameron noted, put an arm around her. The two men walked a short distance from the house to where Frankie’s bakkie was parked. ‘Who was the man staying with Dr Hamilton and Jess in your mother-in-law’s house?’
‘Just a labourer I picked up to do some work around the house,’ Cameron said.
‘You know we have people on the estate who can do that sort of work.’
‘Ja, and your rates are too bloody expensive.’
Frankie didn’t laugh at the attempted levity in Cameron’s words. ‘You know that’s not true. Why did the gate entrance register show only yourself and the two women?’
‘He was asleep in the back of my bakkie.’
Frankie shook his head. ‘I’m not buying it, Cameron. We don’t need this kind of kak on the estate. We pride ourselves on our safety and security record and you’ve got a “labourer” armed with a shotgun out in the bush taking on another tsotsi with an AK. Are you going to be straight with me?’
Cameron could see the bind he had placed Frankie in. ‘Look, all I can say is that it’s important we protect the man I brought into the estate. I thought we’d be safe here. He’s going to be the star witness in a case that will put that man your guys are hopefully about to catch behind bars for the rest of his life. He’s stolen and killed for years.’
‘Well, you can hand him over to the police now. I’m going to see them. Are you coming with?’
Cameron looked at Kylie and Jess. ‘I’ll take care of Jess if you want to go,’ Kylie said. She had probably overheard all they had said. ‘We’ll all sleep better if we know Wellington’s in custody.’
The two men got into the bakkie with the Hippo Rock logo on the side. Frankie had a shotgun with extra shells in loops on the green canvas sling. Cameron was unarmed, which was probably a good thing because if he came within range of Wellington he would be seriously tempted to put a bullet in his head.
A few kilometres along the main road, the R536, Frankie turned right between the crumbling white stone gates of Lisbon estate. Frankie’s head of security flagged them down and they got out of the vehicle. Overhead a helicopter was circling, its spotlight playing down. They walked until they could see between two rows of dead trees and saw Wellington Shumba, the lion of the underground, walking, arms out, his rifle dangling by its sling. This time Wellington was the prey, not the hunter. Blue lights strobed and two police officers, guns drawn, ran to the Zimbabwean, grabbed his rifle and put him on the ground, face down.
‘There’s your man,’ Frankie said over the whine of the helicopter’s engine. Its work done, the aircraft’s pilot doused his light and turned back to Skukuza. In the relative quiet that descended Frankie and Cameron moved forward.
More policemen covered Wellington, who was hauled to his feet, his hands manacled behind him now. They led him to a patrol car. Cameron saw the black BMW that had raced past him. Its driver’s side door opened and a figure emerged.
‘The guys who just cuffed him are local, but I don’t recognise her,’ Frankie said, noticing the woman getting out of the car.
‘Colonel Sindisiwe Radebe, Barberton’s police commander. Shit.’
‘What’s wrong with her? Crooked?’
‘You remember the police commissioner who was put in prison for corruption?’ Cameron asked, watching the colonel walk to where the other officers were holding Wellington.
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘Sindisiwe used to be his aide. She learned from the best. The Hawks investigated her, but she squeaked through. She’s not honest, but she is smarter than her old boss.’
‘I’m taking custody of this man,’ Colonel Radebe said to the officers who had put the cuffs on Wellington. ‘I have a warrant for his arrest.’
The arresting officers were clearly outranked and after a brief discussion handed Wellington over to Sindisiwe and the four officers who had been in the cars that had passed Cameron earlier.
Cameron and Frankie moved closer and Wellington turned and looked at Cameron. For a few brief seconds
their eyes locked. A police officer put a hand on his bald head to protect it as he folded the criminal into the back of the patrol car. Sindisiwe Radebe walked over to Cameron and Frankie.
‘Cameron, how are you?’
‘Fine, and you, Colonel?’ Cameron said. He knew he had been right not to bring his gun. He tried to bring his rage under control, but it was hard knowing this corrupt policewoman now had charge of Shumba.
‘Fine, thank you. So, we have our man,’ she said.
Cameron clenched his fists by his side. ‘I called the National Prosecuting Authority. The Hawks will want to question Wellington.’
Sindisiwe shook her head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Cameron, and while you were the manager of the mine, you are not a law enforcement officer or a prosecutor, so it is not up to you who handles a criminal case. Do you doubt that I will handle this matter according to the letter of the law?’
Cameron bit back his reply.
She continued: ‘I am looking for a Mozambican man named Luis Domingues Correia, the husband of the woman who was killed yesterday. I am going to ask you if you know where this man is.’
Out of the corner of his eye Cameron noticed Frankie moving back to his bakkie. He called his security men together. Cameron looked into the colonel’s eyes. ‘No.’
‘You are sure? If you do not provide the police all of the information you have then you know you are committing a criminal offence, Mr McMurtrie.’ Her false bonhomie had slithered into the night.
‘I understand.’
‘Very well. I have to take my prisoner back to Barberton; it’s just fortunate that I happened to be in this area tonight when I heard the call of trouble on the estate. Who would have thought that Wellington Shumba would have been breaking into this place?’
‘Who indeed.’
She lowered her voice. ‘If you do happen to stumble on this man, Correia, remember he is a dangerous criminal. He may or may not have been part of the hijacking of your vehicle, even though you told my man at the crime scene Correia was never in the car. Things may be easier for you if this man was in custody, or somewhere where no one can find him. Think about it.’
The colonel got into her car and as it pulled away, blue lights strobing the trees on either side of the road, Cameron clearly saw Wellington’s face as the Lion turned to him and smiled.
PART THREE
21
It was just the three of them now, the fisherman, his mate and their one surviving chick.
Inkwazi had struck the nest with the speed and devastating ferocity of a bolt of lightning, and the fisherman had barely registered the blur of russet and white feathers before one of his offspring had been grabbed then carried off, screaming, in the fish eagle’s wicked yellow talons.
Their secluded nest had been shredded by the attack, but the fisherman and his mate had painstakingly rebuilt it. Each night he left their home to seek more barbel and bream to feed himself and his family. It was while he was out fishing that he spied a new danger, Ingwe.
From the branch of a jackalberry, its bark as black as if it had been burned, he watched Ingwe. This was a young leopard, not long separated from its mother, and therefore not as stealthy as it moved through the undergrowth on the edge of the Sabie River. The fisherman’s own remaining offspring should be ready to leave the nest soon; the sooner the better, as there was danger everywhere, especially now that Inkwazi knew their location. Fortunately for the fisherman’s remaining chick, the fish eagle and his mate had lately been satisfied taking their fill from the river.
The fisherman turned his head to watch the cat, and instead of diving into the Sabie he flew through the cool night air to the next tree, shadowing Ingwe. From vantage point to vantage point they were moving closer to the sycamore fig where his family lived.
Ingwe paused, one paw still suspended in midair, at the sound of the owl chick’s screech. The fisherman’s youngster had seen its father and called in anticipation of the meal it expected. Ingwe looked up, tracking the noise with his night-vision eyes and his ears. His tail twitched as he lowered his body and crept silently to the base of the tree.
The fisherman gave his booming call and his mate, in the nest, responded with a whine that sounded like the high-pitched keening of the jackal. The fisherman left his branch and dive-bombed the leopard, swooping low over Ingwe’s head. The cat looked up in annoyance. Other birds, creatures of the daylight hours, were roused from their sleep and a chorus of different calls echoed along the river.
Ingwe, to his eternal annoyance, was already used to this, to birds and even the ever watchful baboons and monkeys shrieking and hollering to give away his location to all and sundry in the bush. He was still a clumsy hunter of big game, of the wily bushbuck and the fleet impala, but since he’d been weaned he had been honing his killing skills on the littler things – hares, lizards, rodents and, occasionally, baby birds in nests in the trees where he and his mother had spent much of their time.
Ingwe hooked his fore claws into the bark of the fig and began to climb. The owl attacked him again, close enough to brush his rosette-covered coat, but the leopard ignored the pesky bird. He heard the chick’s squeal again over the mother’s alarm and climbed higher.
The fisherman hovered in plain view of Ingwe, keeping pace with the cat’s climb. When it became clear that the leopard was heading for the branch with the nest, the fisherman played his final card: he dropped to the ground and whined out loud. In the clearing where he landed he crooked a wing and hopped about in a circle.
Ingwe stopped and looked down. The adult owl seemed to be injured. It thrashed about as though trying to fly, but could not leave the ground, and its call, like its size, dwarfed that of the chick in the tree and the female that flapped her wings and put herself between the leopard and the nest.
Ingwe had eaten baby birds that had fallen from nests, but he had never eaten a flying creature as big as the flailing owl on the ground. It was the size of a baby impala or a steenbok. Ingwe jumped to the nearest branch, turned around and retraced his path, running headlong down the trunk of the fig.
The fisherman watched the cat grow bigger with every bound as the leopard raced towards him, any thought of stealth now over-taken by the predator’s youthful excitement. At the moment Ingwe’s paws left the ground in what he thought would be his killing pounce, the fisherman’s seemingly broken wing healed itself and the owl fluttered up into the air. Ingwe landed where the bird had been, but instead of stopping he bounced upwards, his right front paw clawing the air. He came close to the fisherman but the owl flew ten metres then dropped to the ground again.
Once more the fisherman feigned a broken wing and Ingwe, who was still too young to understand the ploy, followed his instincts to jump on any wounded creature that still moved.
The fisherman took flight again. Just when it seemed the leopard might finally wake up to the bird’s deliberate attempts to draw him away from his chick, an eerie wooo-ooop checked Ingwe’s pursuit. The leopard turned its head as the call came again.
As the fisherman left the ground for the comparative safety of a nearby branch he saw the pair of hyena lope into view, and Ingwe, the leopard, who was no match for these spotted beasts with their vice-like jaws, ran off into the darkness.
22
‘I still can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Kylie said the next morning as Cameron slowed to fifty kilometres an hour. He smiled and waved to the fat traffic cops leaning against the bonnet of their shiny Toyota as he approached the Komatipoort border post.
‘You didn’t have to come along,’ Cameron said.
She folded her arms. ‘Yes I did. Luis saved my life, too. Hell, everyone saved everyone’s life underground, so why shouldn’t we all do stupid things for each other now for the rest of our lives?’
He cracked a smile. ‘You want Wellington out of business, permanently, as much as I do. This has become personal for you.’
He was right, though she hated to admit it. The e
vents of the last few days felt completely surreal to her. She’d done the same stupid thing she’d told him not to do, from Australia. She had taken the law into her own hands and she had even killed a man. The first of the nightmares about the underground shooting had come to her last night, days after it had happened. She’d told Cameron about it, on the drive to the border, and he had told her the nightmares would never end. They would reduce in frequency, he assured her, but never end.
Cameron hit the electric window and Kylie felt the humidity wash in over them. It was hotter and stickier here than in Barberton or on the Sabie River. It must be like a furnace in the back, under the cover.
‘Afternoon, how are you?’ Cameron said to the security man.
‘I am fine, boss, and you?’ The man handed him a slip of white paper, a gate pass.
‘Here we go,’ Cameron said to her as he closed the window and drove up to the customs and immigration hall. ‘Remember the plan?’
‘If anyone finds Luis we act shocked and claim he stowed away in the back of the truck when we parked at the shopping mall at Mal–’
‘Malelane.’
She practised saying the name. It sounded exotic, but this place where gold dealers met and billionaires played golf had seemed anything but as they had passed through from Nelspruit.
Cameron parked and Kylie forced herself not to look back at the truck. They walked to the entry door and Cameron slid the gate pass onto the counter in front of a bored-looking man in a SARS uniform. He barely looked up from his copy of the Sowetan as he reached for his stamp. Cameron greeted him in Tsonga and the man mumbled a reply.
‘How many are you?’
‘Two.’
The first lie, Kylie thought, her heart pounding and her mouth dry. The man wrote the numeral on the gate pass and thudded it home with his stamp.
Cameron had told her and Luis of his conversation with Colonel Radebe when a clearly unhappy Frankie had brought him back to Hippo Rock. Kylie had had the distinct impression that Frankie wanted them all gone as soon as possible.
