Far Horizon (34 page)

‘The stars are incredible,' she said softly and Mike turned to see her staring up through the trees.

Mike thought for a moment of Isabella and that first night of theirs on top of the UN four-wheel drive in Kruger. He looked up as well and wondered if there really was a heaven and if you ever really forget someone. He hoped he would never forget
Isabella as long as he lived, but he also realised he had reached a turning point and that he really cared for Sarah. He wanted her sexually, but there was much more to his feelings than that. He knew what they were about to do was right – as right as it had been for him and Isabella.

She looked at him, kneeling on the opposite side of the mattresses. He moved towards her, on his knees also, and took her in his arms. They kissed again, hard and passionate. He laid her down and pulled her T-shirt off, urgently, lusting to see the firm white breasts he had so tenderly caressed just a few minutes before. Now he wanted to devour them, to consume every bit of her.

Her movements were just as frantic as his as she tore at the fastening and zipper of his shorts, hands reaching roughly inside.

He moved between her opened legs, running his hands the length of her body, over her tanned arms and legs, her creamy white pelvis and breasts. He tasted her clean, soap-scented skin, from the base of her neck to the tight curls between her legs. She encircled him with her fingers, pulling hard and fast. They both needed release and she was hot and already pulsing with desire as his fingers opened her.

‘Now,' she pleaded in his ears, guiding him towards her. She closed her eyes as he entered her, and bit down hard on her lower lip. Her muscles tensed for an instant, then relaxed as he slid home with a thrust that made her gasp with pleasured surprise.

There was no slow build-up to their first lovemaking. She clung to him fiercely, digging her nails
painfully into his back, her long legs wrapped tightly around him, as he plunged in and out of her. Beneath him, she arched her back and gripped him tighter and tighter with her arms and her unseen muscles, bringing them both to the brink of climax.

‘God, I need you,' he whispered breathlessly in Sarah's ear.

‘Me too. I'm yours tonight.'

‘I
've got work to do today,' Sarah said, sitting upright and clutching the sleeping bag to cover her bare breasts.

‘Thank you,' Mike said, as he lazily ran a finger down the ridges of her spine.

‘Oh. Thank you, too,' she said, smiling brightly as she looked down at him. She fumbled under the covers for her T-shirt and added, as she pulled it on, ‘Mike, I've got calls to make. Can we talk later?'

He wasn't expecting flowers or a champagne breakfast, but he could guess from the excited look in her eyes what she wanted next, and it wasn't sex or a lazy lie-in. Besides, the sun was up and campers were wandering around, to and from the shower block. There could be no hanky-panky on top of a bright yellow truck in daytime, nor any shared showers.

‘I've got a friend on
The Times
, Mike. He's on the foreign desk. I've got to call him now. The story is too good to miss, and it might be my ticket out of travel magazines.'

Mike rubbed his eyes. By the time they had made love a second, slower, time, it was only a couple of hours before dawn and they had woken with the sun. He, too, had calls to make before the rest of the group arrived.

After showering, separately, they each bought phone cards at the camp shop and took turns at feeding them into a hungry payphone just outside the entrance gate. While Sarah waited for the newsdesk of
The Times
of London to call her back, Mike squeezed in a long call to Rian. Mike explained everything that had happened, from the real purpose of his meeting with Theron at the border, up to last night's mayhem.

‘Christ, Mike, you could have ruined me if anything happened to the tourists!' Rian said angrily. ‘Is it safe to go on? They haven't caught these people and they might track you down!'

‘I know, that's why I'm cancelling the trip, Rian.'

‘Cancelling it?'

‘I've got no reason to think they know who I am or what I'm driving, but the other passengers will have been shaken up after last night. I'm going to drop them at Lusaka. Can you and Susie arrange for their flights to be rescheduled?'

‘
Ja
. It'll cost us, but you're right – their safety has got to be our priority. There's a flight to London tonight. I know some people at BA. I'll see how many seats I can book. It was bloody foolish of you to even agree to help the police in the first place.'

Mike knew Rian was right. In truth, however, his only regret about the preceding night was that he
hadn't had a clear shot at Hess or Orlov with Patrick's rifle.

Mike explained to Sarah what Rian had said. She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘How long will it take to get to Lusaka?' she asked.

‘It's only about a hundred and thirty kilometres from here. We'll get going as soon as we pick everyone up from the houseboat. With the border crossing, probably about three hours. We'll be there by four at the latest, I reckon.'

The payphone rang again and Sarah snatched it up. She outlined what had happened to her and Mike, talking up the danger and mentioning the nationalities of everyone in the tour group. Mike listened in uneasily.

‘Pictures? You bet I've got pictures! A crusty old ranger being treated for a bullet wound, hero tour guide dragging him to safety.' Sarah winked at Mike, but he didn't smile back.

She listened to the caller, nodding her head and making notes in her spiral-bound reporter's notebook. At last she hung up. ‘Right, I've got an hour to write the story, then they'll call back and I'll dictate it down the line. Depending on the pics and the comments we can get from your chum in the South African Police, they may even want a follow-up and a weekend feature!'

‘How will you get the pictures to them?' Mike asked.

‘Um, Mike, I'll be in London.'

‘You're leaving? Of course . . .' Although he had instructed Rian to cancel the tour and arrange flights
home for everyone he had half expected – hoped – that Sarah might want to stay in Africa for a while longer.

‘Mike,' Sarah said, placing a hand on his arm, ‘this is my big chance. They've offered me a few days on freelance rates to follow up the story, but there's not much I can do from the back of a truck on the road in the middle of nowhere. If I get home and do a good job there might be a full-time position in it. Nicholas hinted as much and said they were looking to hire people at the moment.'

He didn't know or care who Nicholas was. ‘What about the job you've got now? Don't you like travel writing?' he asked.

‘Sure, it's fun, but I want to do hard news. I want to be sent overseas to cover coups and great events, not travelogues and advertorials for tour companies. Anyway, I'm not giving up my job right now. My magazine will be happy for me to do the stuff for
The Times
as long as they mention who I work for – it's great publicity for the mag. But if something better comes up, then I'd be mad not to jump at it.'

‘I'm sure you're making the right decision,' he said. ‘Now, I've got to pick up the rest of the gang from the wharf. You'd better start writing.'

He turned and walked to the truck. He allowed himself a quick backward glance. Sarah was still standing by the payphone and she was staring at him, lost in thought. He smiled and she smiled back. She turned and walked to a picnic table in the camping ground, sat down on the wooden bench and started to write in her notebook.

On his way to the wharf where the houseboat would dock, Mike stopped in at the police station, located on the top of a hill with panoramic views over the lake and township of Kariba. He gave the police a written statement on behalf of himself and Sarah, who, he fibbed, was too distraught to come to the station. Then he continued on to the wharf and found another payphone. His mobile phone still wasn't picking up a signal. He dialled Fanie Theron's number and was surprised when the detective answered the phone.

‘It's Mike Williams. I'm glad I've got through to you and not your voice mail.'

‘I've been trying to call you all morning. Are you OK?' Theron asked.

‘I'm OK, but we cut it close last night,' Mike said. He talked Theron through the events in Matusadona National Park.

‘I heard about that. I've been on the phone to the Zimbabweans this morning.'

‘How did you find out so quickly?' Mike asked.

‘I can't go into that now. Did you see Hess or Orlov? Can you stand up in court and testify that they were in the park after hours, with weapons?'

Mike hesitated as the thought of lying crossed his mind. Perjury seemed a small crime compared to the trail of blood Hess and Orlov had left in their wake, but he could also imagine the difficulties of mounting the case against them. ‘I'm sorry, Fanie. It was dark, and they were the ones with the night sight, not us.'

‘
Ja
, I understand,' Theron said.

Mike could hear the disappointment in his voice.

‘Anyway, it's over for now, Mike.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They're leaving. Orlov is probably on his way back to Russia right now.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Again, I can't say, but trust me – it's over. Look, I can't talk now. Contact me when you get back to South Africa so I can debrief you in more detail. Goodbye.' He hung up.

So that was that, Mike told himself. No thanks for risking his life, and no chance of catching the men who had killed Isabella and nearly finished off Sarah and him. He was disappointed and angry, but he had other people to worry about now.

Everyone spoke at once as they hopped off the moored houseboat and onto the concrete dock.

‘Quiet, please!' Mike called above the hubbub, raising his hands for silence. He made his apologies to the stern-faced captain of the houseboat, and shepherded the group into the back of Nelson for some privacy from the labourers and deckhands milling around the wharf. When the tourists were seated, he repeated the long story he'd told Rian.

‘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.

‘K
arl, 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.