Far Horizon (12 page)

‘Buffalo. At least, we were trying to hunt buffalo,' Hess lied, then tasted the stew. It was bland and oily, but Hess didn't care. To a soldier, food was nothing more than fuel for the body.

‘Surely you don't need a helicopter to shoot buffalo?' she asked, smiling.

‘Well, our friend, Mr Jankowski,' Hess had described Orlov as a wealthy Polish immigrant businessman who now lived in the United States, ‘is not short of cash. We've been staying on the coast, near Beira, doing some diving as well, and the chopper makes it easy for us to get around and do everything in a short period of time.'

‘Looks like you were rushing things a little too much,' she chided.

Hess laughed, but secretly bridled at the woman's insolence. He would dearly have loved to teach her a lesson in respect. ‘You've been most kind, but Frank here,' he said pointing to Viljoen with a fork, ‘gets kinda nervous if he's away from his chopper for too long, and Luke,' Hess nodded to Klaus, ‘has offered to help him check the rotor blades. In fact, we all need to turn in. It's been a big day.'

Isabella nodded. Clearly her questioning was making the men nervous and they had stayed with her the bare minimum amount of time. She hoped Joseph
had had time to follow her instructions. ‘You're sure we can't fix you a bed in the storeroom?'

‘No, but thanks again, Doctor. We'll sleep in the helicopter. It won't be the first time.'

‘Very well, gentlemen. Goodnight.'

Soon after the men departed, Isabella answered a soft knock on the back door of Father Patrick's cottage. Joseph, the nightwatchman, dressed in green overalls with his aged shotgun slung over one shoulder, greeted her in Portuguese.

‘Ivory, Doctor,' the nightwatchman said. He had followed her directions, and sneaked through the bush around the mission station and come in behind the nuns' cottage, where he could approach the parked helicopter unseen while the hunters were dining with Isabella. With the cargo doors removed, there was nothing stopping him from examining the interior of the machine. Joseph had smelled elephant as soon as he stuck his balaclava-clad head into the strange machine. Under a green tarpaulin were two of the biggest tusks he had ever seen in his life. Although he didn't tell the doctor how he knew, he had a good idea how much money tusks such as these would fetch.

Isabella took a deep breath when he told her the amount, knowing the end value of the ivory, wherever it was destined for, would be many times the sum a Mozambican poacher could expect to earn. She debated the merits of sending Joseph into Mapai immediately to fetch the police. However, she didn't know if the police station would be manned at that hour and, besides, she would feel safer if she had an
armed guard of her own at the mission during the night.

‘Tomorrow, Joseph, first thing you go to Mapai. Fetch the police. Tell them what you have seen. I will keep these men here until the police arrive. Understand?'

Joseph nodded.

Sergeant Mpofu was up early. His belly gurgled pleasingly every now and then. The unclaimed chickens would never be claimed now.

The sun was coming up in front of him as he cycled up the long dirt driveway to the mission. He wanted to get this business at the mission over with as quickly as possible. Some of the other officers from the station were taking a trip into Maputo later in the day and the sergeant did not want to miss his lift. It should have been his day off, but the bus accident had ruined all their rosters and he still had to interview the surviving passengers. The cocking handle of the AK-47 slung across his back dug painfully into his kidneys every time his old cycle hit a bump, and there were many bumps on this road.

Isabella was awake early as well and had just finished repeating her instructions to Joseph for the third time, when she saw the portly police sergeant cycling up to the mission clinic. Relief flooded through her, calming her jumpy nerves. Joseph was loyal and hardworking, but she doubted he would be able to convey the seriousness of the situation to the police on his own.

Karl Hess had slept on the cargo floor of the helicopter in his sleeping bag, sandwiched between the plundered ivory and Viljoen. Klaus sat on the ground with his back resting uncomfortably against one of the upright supports of the helicopter skids. His AK-47 rested on his lap, but was hidden by the coarse woollen blanket draped across his knees.

Hess checked his watch. Six o'clock. With luck they would be across the border and safely ensconced at the lodge before nine.

‘
Baas!
' Klaus hissed.

Hess looked up and swore when he saw the policeman. He sat up, unzipped his sleeping bag and then reached into the rucksack he had been using as a pillow. Using his back as a shield to the fast approaching policeman, he pulled out a Glock automatic pistol and thrust it into the waistband of the trousers he had slept in. He swung his long legs out of the chopper, at the same time digging Viljoen in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Wake up. Be ready to start this thing in ten minutes, or on my signal.'

Viljoen rubbed his eyes and started to protest, but then held his tongue when he saw the uniformed man dismounting from his bicycle a scant fifty metres away. Hess strode across the square and arrived at the policeman's side at the exact same moment as Isabella.

Sergeant Mpofu recognised the doctor. How could he not? He fancied himself a ladies' man and, though he did not remember his former colonial masters with anything other than hatred and contempt, he knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, and acted accordingly.

‘Good morning, Doctor, and how are you this fine day?' he asked, smiling, in Portuguese.

Isabella flashed him her warmest smile and replied, in her native tongue, ‘Sergeant, say nothing and do nothing to alarm this man. He is a criminal and he and his men are armed.'

The smile fell from the sergeant's face for a second until he regained his composure.

‘Good morning, officer. Schultz is my name. Do you speak English?' Hess butted in, delivering his lines in his thick American drawl.

The sergeant looked at Isabella. He had no idea what the tall white man had just said.

Isabella filled the awkward silence that followed. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Schultz, the sergeant speaks no English. Perhaps I can translate for you both?'

Hess nodded warily, and launched into his story about a hunting accident. To Isabella, he asked, ‘How is our friend doing? I'm getting really worried about him and I think we should move him to Maputo as quickly as possible.'

‘A moment, please. Allow me to translate for the sergeant,' Isabella said, desperate to buy time and not let the American bully her. To the policeman, she said, ‘He thinks I'm translating for him. There is ivory in the helicopter. They are poachers and one of them has been shot. He is in the clinic. You must arrest them now!'

Sergeant Mpofu was overwhelmed by the information the woman had just told him. If it was true, the arrest would be the highlight of his career. Promotion and a posting to Maputo. Alternatively, he wondered
how much the ivory would be worth on the black market, his mind exploring all possible avenues. First, he decided, he needed to inspect the helicopter to verify the woman's claims. ‘Tell him I want to have a look at the helicopter,' he said to the doctor.

‘No! He will be suspicious. Why don't you just arrest him now?' she replied testily, still in Portuguese.

Hess did not like the look on the woman's face as she spoke to the policeman, who was himself starting to look agitated. While the pair babbled away in their foreign tongue, Hess slowly reached around his back and felt for the Glock in his waistband.

Mpofu was not going to be dictated to by a woman, attractive or otherwise, and he pointed towards the helicopter, indicating to the white man that he should accompany him. As he did so, he began to unsling his assault rifle.

As fast as a striking cobra, Hess pulled the pistol from his waistband and rammed the short barrel into the policeman's temple. ‘Tell him to lay down his rifle, slowly,' he hissed at Isabella, all trace of his American accent now gone. ‘I'll trust you to at least get that sentence correct.'

She did as he asked, then added, in English, ‘You won't get away!'

‘Wanna bet?' he said with a smile, slipping back into the phoney drawl.

The tense silence was shattered by the boom of a shotgun. Isabella felt the whip of pellets slicing through the air, uncomfortably close to her shoulder. She spun around and saw Joseph, the nightwatchman, standing at the corner of the clinic. He had
circled around the vignette unfolding in the square and timed his shot perfectly.

Hess flinched as a few lead pellets ripped through the fabric of his shirt and into his upper right arm. Although the wound was not serious, the force of the hit was enough to make him drop his pistol in the dust.

Joseph raised the ancient double-barrelled shotgun to his shoulder again and started walking towards the people in the courtyard.

‘Joseph, look out!' Isabella cried, too late.

Klaus was on his feet now, the blanket falling to the ground as he raised his own weapon. He fired the AK-47 twice and the accurate hammer blows of the bullets punched Joseph backwards. Blood welled from the twin holes in his chest as he lay motionless in the dust.

Isabella dropped to her knees and reached for Hess's fallen pistol, but the hunter, still on his feet, kicked her hard in the stomach and she doubled up in agony. Hess heard the whine of turbine engines starting behind him, and knew he would live to fight again. The African policeman had instinctively dropped to the ground as the gunfire began, his rifle still awkwardly slung over his back. Now he writhed in the dust as he reached up over his shoulder for the barrel. Hess stooped, the movement almost leisurely, and retrieved his pistol. He raised it, took a step towards the struggling policeman, and shot him between the eyes.

‘Enough killing! Stop it, damn you! Go. Just go,' Isabella cried between painful gasping breaths.

Klaus was at Hess's side now, awaiting orders. ‘Kill
the other patients, Klaus. Oh, and them, too.' Hess pointed languidly with his pistol to the two nuns who were running across the square, heedless of their own safety. ‘Take whatever valuables and drugs you can find. Make it look like a robbery.'

Tears started to well in Isabella's eyes as she thought about Mike. Where was he? She wanted him here, by her side, so badly. She raised herself up onto her knees and looked up into the pitiless blue eyes of the man standing above her. She hawked from the back of her throat with all her might and then spat, full into his face.

Jan Viljoen busied himself checking the dials and gauges of his instrument panel. The engines were coming up to full power as he glanced across at the square. From the clinic building he heard the sound of rifle fire, above the engine's roar. In the square he saw Hess standing over the kneeling form of the pretty female doctor. The Namibian had his arm outstretched, his pistol centimetres from the woman's face.

Viljoen screwed his eyes tight, knowing what would happen next and not wanting to be a part of it. He flinched as he heard the single shot.

Theron and Sergeant Ndlovhu had to go to Mapai to pay a call on the local police commander there. Mike told them he needed to get to the town and Jake raised no objections when the policemen offered a lift. Theron wanted Mike to talk through his story once more. Mike and Jake shook hands, the briefest of farewells passing between them. The National Parks
officers took copious photos of the now deceased national treasure and also left for Maputo.

As he walked to the police vehicle, Mike noticed a wide brown leather strap lying in the back of the National Parks
bakkie
.

‘It will take us a good two or three hours to reach Mapai. We'll be lucky to make it by nightfall. Take the back seat and have a rest, Tobias,' Theron said to Sergeant Ndlovhu.

The detective climbed in behind the wheel of the Land Rover and opened the passenger door from the inside for Mike. As the vehicle moved off, Mike rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. It was good to clear the stench of rotting flesh from his nostrils.

‘Did that collar in the back of the Parks truck come off the elephant?' he asked Theron.

‘
Ja
. Those Parks
okes
are pretty embarrassed about it,' he said, using the common Afrikaans slang term for ‘men'. ‘That was a radio collar on the old boy. They monitor their locations regularly and he shouldn't have been allowed to get that far across the border.'

‘Surely they do, though? There's no fence now to stop them from crossing into Mozambique and I thought that was the general idea, to let the animals go back to migrating across international borders.'

‘Not for a special elephant like old Skukuza – they wouldn't let those tusks wander into Mozambique. The National Parks Board has helicopters and when they noticed him getting too close to the border they would have used their chopper to shepherd him back to safety.'

‘So what happened this time?'

Theron took a long drag on his cigarette and swerved to miss a pothole. He did not answer straightaway and Mike had the feeling he was weighing up whether to confide in him or not.

‘Sabotage. But keep that to yourself, eh?' he said, jabbing his cigarette in Mike's direction to emphasise his point. ‘Their helicopter was down for two days before this hit, and it took them that long to work out it was no accident.'

‘What makes you think there were two whites involved?' Mike asked.

‘More, maybe, if you include their helicopter pilot. This was a hunting trip, not a bunch of ragtag Mozambican poachers. A big, expensive, illegal hunting trip. There are African helicopter pilots in Africa, and black professional hunters, but these are two areas where affirmative action has yet to make serious inroads,' he said with a wink.

‘Go on,' Mike urged him.