The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  I kept this steady and repetitive routine going for the next seven days with my mind singularly focussed on my objective. There was nothing and no one that would stand in my way. It was early on a humid and cloudy Thursday morning that I set out from the chalet for the first time without the crutch. By then the wound had all but healed and there was only slight discomfort as I walked the familiar road through the forest. I found my friend Jameson sitting on his stool leaning against the guard house as usual. He nodded his approval as I approached and sat down.

  “You are now ready Mr Jason,” he said as I offered him a cigarette.

  I lit our cigarettes, leant back against the brickwork and exhaled.

  “I am ready Jameson,” I replied.

  Chapter Thirteen: Dixon Mayuni

  MY MIND WAS BUZZING as I walked back through the forest to my chalet. When I arrived, I quickly browsed the internet for a good car hire company in Lusaka. After calling them to book a vehicle I made my way to the pool area to have breakfast and coffee. The clouds were clearing and the day growing hotter as I paid for my stay at the reception and thanked the staff for everything. I collected the hard drive and made my way back to the chalet to pack my bags. The taxi arrived as I placed a $100 note in an envelope and pocketed it. Leaving the crutches behind I picked up my bags and made my way out to the waiting vehicle.

  “I need to get to Avis Rent-A-Car please,” I said to the driver.

  We made a U turn and headed back down the track towards the road I had walked so many times in the last days. I watched as my friend Jameson stood up from his stool as we approached the gate. Before he lifted the boom, I called him around to my side of the vehicle and handed him the money envelope along with a pack of cigarettes.

  “This is for you Jameson,” I said as he took the gift and pocketed it without looking in the envelope. “You have helped me a lot. Thank you.”

  “Kupedza nyota kuenda padziva, Mr Jason,” he replied in Shona.

  I looked the old man in the eye and nodded in understanding of the old African proverb.

  “To quench thirst is to go to the pool,” I said quietly.

  He nodded at me then walked off to lift the boom. The car lifted a cloud of dust behind us as we drove off towards the main tar road.

  Five minutes later on the outskirts of the city I told the driver to pull over at a shopping mall on the right-hand side. I pocketed the hard drive, told the driver to wait for me and headed in to buy some supplies. I found a hardware shop that was stocked to the ceiling and told the assistant what I needed. He arrived shortly with a roll of twenty metres of soft baling wire and a pair of rubber gripped wire cutters. I nodded in approval and made my way to the counter to pay. It was as I waited for the salesman to finish with a customer that I noticed the packet of child safe sparklers in amongst some other fireworks on the shelf behind the till. When the salesman had finished with his customer, I placed my purchases on the counter and asked him to hand me the pack of sparklers.

  They were standard Chinese made examples, thirty centimetres long and coated with a grey powdery resin. The pack contained ten. An idea was forming in my mind.

  “I'll take these as well please” I said placing them on the counter.

  The sun was burning hot as I made my way out into the dusty car park to the taxi. I placed my purchases in my bag and told the driver to proceed. The traffic was heavy, so it was a full twenty minutes before I arrived at the car hire company. The back of my shirt was wet with sweat as I paid the driver and climbed out the car with my bags. Thankfully the Toyota Land Cruiser I had booked was fitted with air conditioning and within forty minutes I found myself driving through the bush south on the Kafue Road towards Chirundu and the Zambezi River.

  Two hours later and after passing a few police road blocks where I was asked for my driving license, I arrived at the ramshackle border town and saw the huge concrete bridge that crosses the great river into Zimbabwe. The lodge I had booked was situated ten kilometres downstream on the Zambian side and I soon found the dirt road that led there. The road was rough and passed through a number of dry river beds as it wound its way through the bush downstream. Occasionally it passed near the river and I glanced at it frequently as the vehicle lurched over the tree roots and rocks. I arrived at the gate to Kiamba Lodge in the late afternoon as the heat of the day was subsiding. The guard saluted and opened the gate pointing me in the direction of the reception area. The lodge grounds were manicured with green lawns set amongst indigenous riverine trees. I parked the vehicle in the shade behind the attractive, main building which had a thatched roof. I was immediately struck by the heat and humidity of the afternoon as I locked the car and walked inside. Immediately a waiter approached me with a glass of chilled orange juice on a tray. I thanked him and drank it as I made my way to the front to take a look. The front of the building was open and there was a horizon pool that looked out at the impressive expanse of the Zambezi River below. I glanced downstream to the left to where I knew the Kafue River flowed and where Dixon Mayuni had his base. Oh yes, I'll be seeing you soon. I turned away and walked back into the cool of the building. It was tastefully decorated with tan leather lounge suites, locally woven rattan rugs and distressed furniture. At the centre of the lounge hung a huge chandelier on a chain and to the right was a dining area and bar with a view of the river outside. I made my way to the reception and admired the desk which was made from a giant slab of Mukwa. The manager appeared from a door to the left and greeted me warmly. He produced a pamphlet which showed the layout of the lodge and the accommodation. There was a series of seven thatched bungalow chalets each with river views away downstream. Immediately I pointed at the one furthest from the main building.

  “I would like this one if possible,” I said.

  “Certainly sir, we can put you in there.”

  “Another thing,” I said. “How far is it to the mouth of the Kafue River from here?”

  “That would be roughly four kilometres sir,” he replied.

  “Is there road access there?” I asked.

  “No sir, ours is the last lodge on this side of the river. From here it is all bush.”

  I nodded to myself.

  “Okay, that's fine,” I said.

  “We will have someone help with your bags right away.”

  A porter appeared and we walked outside to the car park. The light had changed to that familiar orange glow of late-afternoon Zambezi Valley. I pulled the bags from the car, locked it and started off down a bricked pathway behind the other chalets. Eventually we arrived and I was led around the front where the porter opened a giant glass sliding door into my accommodation. The room was well furnished with expensive fittings, air conditioning and a flat screen television. Outside the front were four canvas covered campaign chairs and a folding table made from teak. Three metres from my door the brick paving ended and the land dropped away down to the banks of the mighty river itself.

  “Very nice” I said handing the porter a $10.00 note.

  After he had left, I set up my laptop at the table and connected to the wi fi. While I waited for it to boot up, I found myself feeling uneasy; as if there was something I should be doing. I soon realized that I was in the habit of sharpening the hunting knife every evening at that exact time. I removed the knife and the sharpening stone from my bag and sat on one of the campaign chairs to start. The viscous honing oil squirted from the bottle and I rubbed it into the surface of the stone with my thumb. So began my routine sharpening of the huge blade. The steady back and forth motion with each side had a calming effect on me. It was forty minutes later when I sat back and wiped the blade clean with a cloth. I lit a cigarette as I studied the edge. By then it was beyond razor sharp and the red glow of the setting sun reflected in its surface. I replaced the blade in its sheath, put it on the table and sat back to think.

  It was a Thursday and I knew from bitter experience that Mr Mayuni would be making his routine journey across the river to the Zimbabwe side t
o drop his men the following night. I knew I would have to make at least one journey to the Kafue River the next day.

  With the hard drive in my pocket I locked my room and headed back up the brick pathway to the main building of Kiamba Lodge. By the time I arrived at the bar area there was a steady breeze blowing in and the setting sun had changed the dark green waters of the river into a molten red lava flow. The interior lighting was mellow and soft music played through hidden speakers. I drummed my fingers quietly on the surface of the bar as I waited for my beer. Patience Green. The time is coming. That night I dined on braised Impala with Irish champ washed down with a South African red wine. It was 8.30 pm. by the time I walked back down the pathway to my room. The moon had risen, turning the surrounding bush to a curious spectral grey colour. In the distance a pod of Hippos grunted noisily. I opened the sliding glass door to my room, adjusted the air conditioner to 22c and sat down to work.

  I brought up the file that contained the aerial photographs of Mayuni's base that I had taken with the drone. My focus was not the camp itself but rather the mouth of the river. At the point where the Kafue met the Zambezi it was at least 120 metres wide and flowing with considerable speed. I recalled seeing dugout canoes hidden in the reeds so my focus was on that point. I found them two hundred metres upstream on the Kiamba side of the river. As long as they were still there, I would have no problem crossing the river to Mayuni's camp. After staring at the image for a few minutes I sat back, lit a cigarette and looked out at the river. Tomorrow, Green. I closed the laptop and lay on the crisp white duvet. The bed was firm but comfortable and I watched the moonlight play on the surface of the river for ten minutes until I fell asleep. In my dreams I saw the scabbed face of Dixon Mayuni in the moonlight. Laughing, taunting, celebrating my death. Or at least what he thought was my death.

  I awoke at 6.00 am. sharp and stood outside in the relative cool of the morning to smoke. The birds had come to life and I noticed a few boats on the Zimbabwe side. No doubt keen fishermen from one of the camps there. The pod of Hippos grunted and snorted indignantly and below me some unseen creature rustled the reeds and splashed the water near the bank. The river was waking up to a new day and so was I. After a shower I made myself a coffee and sat out once again to plan my day. Regardless of there being no road access to the Kafue I would have to get there to make sure the canoes were where I had seen them in the photographs. I decided I would once again play the role of the keen bird watcher and wander off into the bush alone. Taking the hard drive with me I walked to the main building of the lodge. An hour later and having eaten a full English breakfast I dropped the hard drive with the manager and asked him to lock it up in the safe.

  I told him I would be heading out into the bush to do some birdwatching. After a little protest I convinced him I was experienced enough to handle it and assured him I would be vigilant to any wild animals. It was 10.00am. and the heat of the day had set in with a vengeance when I set off downstream from my room with my binoculars and camera as my props. As the manager had said the bush was thick and there was no evidence whatsoever of human activity. I did my best to stay near the river but on more than a few occasions I was forced to track inland to avoid deep gullies and impassable thickets of thorn bush. It was over an hour later when I came upon a giant ant hill that protruded three metres from the ground - long since abandoned by its makers. I stopped and crouched in the shade beneath it to have a cigarette. I imagined I had travelled at least two kilometres which would put me half way to the mouth of the Kafue. The ant hill would serve as a land mark from which to gauge my progress later. I crushed out the cigarette and pressed on through the bush.

  The final two kilometres were even more difficult until I found a game trail that snaked along parallel to the river. From the tracks in the dust I could see that it was frequented by Impala and other small buck. Thankfully there was no evidence of any big cats. The bush became thicker as I approached the confluence of the Kafue and the Zambezi and I had to cut further inland as the track became impassable because of gullies and rivulets. Finally, in the full heat of the midday sun the bush cleared to reveal the swift deep waters of the Kafue River in front of me. I crouched in the shade of a flat top Acacia tree and scanned the far side with the binoculars. I was craving a cigarette, but I decided I would wait until I had found what I was looking for and returned at least to the ant hill at the half way point. I could see no evidence of any human activity but a glance at the mouth of the river to my right confirmed I was directly opposite Mayuni's camp. I knew from the aerial photographs that the dugout canoes I had seen were hidden on my side of the river approximately a hundred metres upstream. Slowly and carefully I moved upstream in the cover of the bush. Occasionally I moved closer to the water and parted the reeds, but I found nothing. All the time I watched and listened for any movement; animal or human. I was more than aware of the real risk of a pitfall trap so if ever I was unsure of the surface ahead, I prodded it with a dried reed I had picked up.

  I found a small clearing cleverly hidden in the hollow trunk of a giant Baobab tree. The inside was cool and smelt of tobacco and wood smoke. I scanned the compacted earth and saw a cigarette butt half buried in the dust. Must be the crossing point. To my right was a huge thorn bush with a tiny, man-made crawl space beneath it that led to the reeds near the river. My entire body was dripping with sweat as I slowly made my way through on my hands and knees. Eventually I emerged at the reed bed on the other side where I stopped to listen. Apart from the gurgle of the river and the birds there was no sound.

  I wiped the sweat from my eyes and parted the reeds. Bingo. Lying in the shallow protected water in front of me lay three wooden dug-out canoes. Spread out on top of them was a mat of dried reeds but this effort at concealment had failed. They were exactly where the drone photographs had shown them to be. One of them had leaked and lay half submerged in the shallow water but the other two were floating proud and were completely dry inside. Lying in each of them were two crude paddles fashioned from branches. Good. Slowly and carefully I turned around and made my way back through the crawl space to the hollow in the Baobab. I sat there in the cool shade for a few minutes as I planned the night ahead. So far so good Green. Eventually I stood and started making my way back using the tracks I had made on the way. It made for faster progress as there was no guess work navigating the various gullies and thickets of thorn bush. The sun was scorchingly hot above on the occasions I was in its direct light. It was forty minutes later that I found myself at the giant ant hill I had marked as the half way point. Being mid-day there was no longer any shade afforded by it, so I made my way to a tall Kigelia sausage tree near the river to rest and smoke. There was a breeze blowing in from the south and although it felt more like a hair dryer it had the effect of drying the sweat from my clothes.

  The walk back to Kiamba Lodge was long and tiresome in the heat but was once again made easier by my tracks and it was just before 2.00pm. when I arrived at the deck of my air- conditioned room. Once inside I slid the glass doors closed and drank a full two litres of water while staring out at the river. Afterwards I took a shower being careful not to use any shampoo or soap. I knew from experience that Mayuni had long abandoned using personal hygiene products and I had no intention of giving my presence away by smelling as fresh as a daisy when I met him later that night. Instead I chose to simply wash off the sweat and I stood with my eyes closed for ten minutes under the blast of 'cold' water from the shower head. Afterwards I sat outside on the deck in a shaded area to smoke and plan the night ahead. When I was done, I crushed out the cigarette and made my way up the pathway to the main building to find the manager. I found him at the reception working on the computer.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I have a lot of work to do tonight so I was wondering if you could have my dinner brought to my room at 6.00pm?”

  “Certainly sir,” he replied. “Please make a choice from the menu and I will have the kitchen staff deliver it down to you then
.”

  I thanked him and walked to the dining area to get a menu. Having made my choice, I walked back to the reception to place my order.

  “I would like the fillet steak with pepper sauce please,” I said. “Rare... oh, and a bottle of Nederburg Baronne as well.”

  The manager made a note of my order on a pad then looked up at me and smiled.

  “I'll have that delivered down to you at 6.00pm sharp sir,” he said.

  I thanked him and made my way out past the pool to the pathway that lead to my room. As I walked in the afternoon sun, I smiled to myself as I thought about my order. Rare......Bloody even.... I spent the next two hours poring over the aerial photographs of Mayuni's hidden base. I studied the layout in minute detail, so I had a clear picture in my mind of the exact whereabouts of each part of it from the cyanide dump to the ivory store to the hut. In my mind I pictured my approach from the river to the left of it. When I could study it no longer, I closed my laptop and went on to the deck to smoke and think. The breeze was still blowing in from the south albeit a little cooler than earlier in the day. Afterwards I returned to the cool of my room to prepare the equipment I would take with me. On the bed I laid the rolled up coil of baling wire, the binoculars, a torch, the cutters, the pack of sparklers, a cigarette lighter and the hunting knife. I stared down at the grouped items and contemplated if I would need anything else. Deciding I would not, I packed them into my small day bag and placed it near the doors. I spent the next few hours pacing the room in frustrated anticipation.

  Occasionally I stepped outside for a cigarette and sat glancing at my watch as I waited. Eventually the hour arrived and at 6.00pm sharp, as the sun was starting to approach the tree line behind me, the waiter with the tray of food arrived. I thanked him and carried it inside as he made his way back up the pathway. I knew I had roughly forty minutes of light left so I quickly grabbed the bag, checked that no one was around and left. I headed downstream as I had done earlier in the day. It was easy enough to follow my tracks through the bush for the first thirty minutes, but it then became necessary to use the torch to navigate. The night was still, clammy and hot as I walked but my body and mind were buzzing with anticipation. My long overdue meeting with Mr Dixon Mayuni was finally going to happen and there was one thing I was certain of. He would pay for what he had done. Darkness descended soon after and without the light of the moon the going was slow and tedious. Eventually I arrived at the giant ant hill that marked the half way point. I sat leaning against its base and lit a final cigarette. The moon showed on the horizon as I smoked and began its journey upwards. Good. Once again, I closed my eyes and pictured my approach to Mayuni's camp. My arms and legs tingled with adrenalin as the scene played out in my mind. Eventually I opened my eyes and crushed out the cigarette. Time to go Green. The moon cast a ghostly pale light over the sandy soil as I walked.