Ivory (48 page)

‘Give me the radio, Frank.'

The hunter turned from the cockpit to Alex and shook his head. ‘Shit. I thought you looked too bloody hard to be a PR officer.'

Frank was three metres away and he tossed the radio at Alex, perhaps expecting him to try to catch it and become distracted for a second. Alex ignored it and let it fall to the ground near his feet. ‘Back away. Slowly.'

Frank raised his hands and looked over his shoulder, no doubt hoping one of his men would see something was amiss. ‘This'll cause a shit storm for the government and national parks. They won't be game to cull again, you know.'

Alex kept his face impassive, but just waved the pistol a little.

Frank's face split into a grin. ‘I saw you during the shooting this morning. I watched your face when the butchering started. You're no
poacher. You looked like you felt something for those elephants. What are you, some kind of animal rights activists or something?'

Ignoring the question, Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He balled it and tossed it at Cole's feet. ‘Give that to Colonel De Villiers. It's got GPS coordinates for the locations of the real PR team and the helicopter's crew. There's an airman with a bullet in his leg not far from here who'll need medical attention, but he'll live.'

Cole nodded and Alex backed around the cockpit. He raised his free hand and twirled his finger in the air. At the signal he heard the engines reach a higher whining pitch. He lowered the barrel of his pistol, pointed towards the walkie-talkie and fired a shot. Frank was still grinning, hands up, as Alex sat in the open cargo compartment.

Across the toes of his boots, as the helicopter rose, Alex saw Frank break into a run towards his
bakkie
.

A
lex could see Satara airstrip ahead and made out the cargo net full of the morning's ivory haul sitting waiting in the open. Two soldiers in camouflage fatigues were sitting on the ground next to the tusks, but they got to their feet at the sound of the approaching helicopter.

‘I have to touch down before they attach the net to the hook under the helicopter,' Kobus said into Alex's headphones.

‘Why?' Kufa asked. He was still sitting in the copilot's seat, wearing Petrice's helmet.

Alex answered for Kobus, who had flared the nose to bleed off speed as they started to descend towards the airstrip. ‘The rotors build up static electricity while we're flying, particularly in dry dusty weather like this. Kobus needs to ground the helicopter to discharge the energy, otherwise when those guys touch the hook they'll get a shock that will knock them off their feet.'

Kevin, wearing the flight engineer's helmet, lay on the floor of the cargo compartment watching the ground beneath them. ‘All clear,' he said. Kobus had told him to take the position as he would need to relay instructions to him when it was time for the men on the ground to attach the cargo net to the hook. Kevin would have to direct Kobus left
or right or backwards or forwards. It was called pattering, Kobus had told them.

They touched down about twenty metres from the two soldiers, who wore goggles to protect their eyes from flying debris, and helmets in case they bumped their heads on one of the Oryx's wheels while it was hovering above them. One man would attach the ‘donut', a looped nylon sling at the top of the net, to the hook, while the other man was there to hold on to the hook-up man's belt, steadying him against the massive downwash of the main rotor.

All the army, police and national parks officers who had been inside the base camp tents had come out to watch the helicopter pick up the ivory. Some had small digital cameras raised. Alex could make out the short, grey-haired figure of Colonel De Villiers. He felt sorry for the grief he was about to cause the man.

‘OK, here we go,' Kobus said.

The hook-up man was standing, holding the donut above his head to signal he was ready. Kobus would hover above him and Kevin would give minute directions to bring the helicopter's hook as close to the man as possible.

‘Move right five metres . . . four, three, two, one,' Kevin said into the intercom, counting off the distance as Kobus brought the machine down out of its hover. ‘Forward. Three, two, one . . .'

Kobus worked the controls gently and the helicopter responded.

‘Over the load . . .'

Alex saw a cloud of red dust on the road. ‘Cole's coming. Hurry it up.'

‘Going as fast as we can,' Kobus said testily.

‘Bring her down, Kobus, five . . .' said Kevin.

‘Shit, he's pointing his rifle out the window,' Alex said.

Above the whine of the Oryx's twin turbine engines they heard the pop, pop of two gunshots fired in quick succession. The men and women who had been standing on the side of the airstrip watching the hovering helicopter now turned at the sound of gunfire. More than one reached for a sidearm. Alex saw De Villiers and a couple of staff officers break from the crowd and move to cut off the approaching
bakkie
.

‘These blokes are looking nervous,' Kevin said into the intercom.

Alex dropped to his belly and stuck his head out into the rotor wash to look underneath the helicopter. As Kevin had said, the two soldiers who were supposed to be hooking up the cargo net had been distracted by the noise of gunfire and the commotion near the tents. Kevin waved to them and pointed furiously at the hook.

Alex looked up and saw De Villiers, Cole and two other men in army uniform sprinting towards them. De Villiers was waving his hands above his head. Cole had his FN in his hands and the other two soldiers carried R5s.

The soldier holding the donut sling still had his arms raised, though he was watching the approaching officers. ‘Nearly on,' Kevin said. ‘Go forward, Kobus, and you'll snatch the bloody thing out of this idiot's hands.'

Kobus nudged the helicopter forward.

‘Nearly on the hook,' Kevin said. ‘Don't stop now.'

The hook-up man felt the sling twitch in his hands and looked up at Kevin and Alex, startled. He glanced back at the running men and then snatched the sling back off the hook. He shook his head furiously.

Frank Cole stopped halfway across the width of the airstrip and raised his rifle.

‘Shit, they're firing at us!' Kobus jerked back on the stick and the helicopter rose a couple of metres and banked to the left.

The two soldiers needed no further explanation. They dropped the slings, disentangled their feet from the pile of tusks and the wire mesh of the net, and sprinted away.

‘This is bullshit. I'm getting us out of here,' Kobus said.

‘Wait!' Alex got to his knees, grabbed his R5, slung it over his head and across his body and vaulted out of the helicopter.

‘Bloody madman,' Kevin said.

Novak tapped Henri and Heinrich on the shoulders and lifted his own rifle to his shoulder and pointed it out the open hatch. ‘Covering fire! Aim short, don't kill anyone unless you have to!'

Colonel De Villiers had stopped Frank Cole from firing more shots,
forcing down the barrel of the hunter's weapon with a slap of his hand. He wanted the hook-up team safely away from the helicopter first; but now the men were clear, Cole and the other two armed soldiers took up firing positions.

Alex hit the ground heavily and rolled, the rifle digging painfully into his back and side. Bullets raised geysers of dirt on the ground around him, and he crawled to the far side of the net full of ivory. He didn't think the tusks would provide great protection against copper-jacketed lead, but he would be out of sight for a few moments. Spent brass cartridges rained down around him from the helicopter overhead and Alex could see the winking muzzle flashes from Novak, Heinrich and Henri's rifles. He looked up and Kevin, still peering over the rim of the cargo compartment floor, gave him an urgent thumbs up.

Alex clambered up onto the pile of ivory. He slipped and felt the sharp point of a tusk jab him painfully in the right calf. He carried on, groping in the choking, blinding dust for the mouth of the net and the nylon slings attached to it.

Cole, De Villiers and the other riflemen had dropped to their bellies in the long grass in response to the fire coming from the Oryx, but they were still trading bullet for bullet. On the edge of the airstrip police and soldiers were climbing into
bakkies
.

Alex found the round donut sling and stood, raising it above his head. He heard the whine and zing of bullets cleaving the air around him. Come on, come on, he willed Kobus. He could see Kevin talking into his mouthpiece and slowly the helicopter levelled out and started coming down towards him. The sheer bulk of the mechanical beast eclipsed the sun and Alex stretched up to meet the oncoming hook. Kevin guided the pilot to him.

As Alex slipped the ring over the point of the hook he heard three or four bullets strike the metal skin of the bird, followed by a scream of pain. The ivory under his feet shifted as another fusillade ripped into the precious cargo.

Alex gave Kevin a thumbs up to confirm the hook was securely attached, but the Australian was pointing over Alex's shoulder. He
turned and saw trucks full of police and soldiers bouncing across the dirt and grass towards them.

‘Go! Go!' Alex screamed, pointing upwards. Kevin relayed the order and the Oryx started to climb.

Alex unslung the rifle from his shoulder and held it with his good hand. He opened fire with a wild burst in front the oncoming trucks and one swerved. The driver overcorrected and the rear of the
bakkie
slid hard to the right. The second truck was just behind him and the driver couldn't brake in time to miss him. The two vehicles collided and the one that was already sliding spun three-hundred and sixty degrees. Two policemen who had been standing in the tray were thrown into the dirt. Alex wrapped his left arm around the now taut nylon sling that attached the cargo net to the hook. He dug his feet into the holes in the net's mesh, and the jumble of shifting tusks below.

Muzzle flashes winked at him from the ground, and though the seconds dragged like hours, they were soon sixty metres off the ground, heading towards the Lebombo Mountains and Mozambique.

Alex screamed with a mix of relief, elation and the wild, terrifying euphoria that comes from being shot at and surviving. As he swung below the helicopter, the slipstream flapped his clothes and tousled his dark hair.

It was the ride of his life, and it was taking him home.

J
ane came to, in darkness.

It was hot and stuffy. She heard the continuous dull throb of an engine somewhere, and the vibration it sent through the bare metal springs of the bed she was lying on mirrored the steady pounding in her head.

She raised a hand to her forehead and wiped away perspiration but not the pain.

She sat up and felt dizzy, so she lay back down again for a moment. Her back felt scored by the imprint of the surface she'd been lying on. She was wearing the same business suit she'd had on when she'd left to meet the police detective in Cape Town, though her shoes were missing, along with her belt, watch, rings and bracelet.

Taking a deep breath she raised herself again, slower this time. When she placed her feet on the floor she felt warm bare steel. She let her body adjust to the change in position and, resting her hand on the railing at the foot of the bed, she stood. She swayed a little and at first thought it was another case of light-headedness, but then realised she was not the only thing moving. She was on board a ship and could feel a mild swell. Not as it might have been on a small boat, but more like the gentle rocking she'd experienced during her weeks on board the
Penfold Son
.

Jane walked slowly away from the bed, hands outstretched in the blackness, until she came to a wall. She felt the steel and confirmed by the number of paces it had taken her what she had begun to suspect – she was inside a shipping container.

In one corner was a steel bucket, which she discovered by painfully stubbing her toe against it. It was empty. In another corner was a full bucket. She dropped to her knees. It smelled odourless so she guessed it was water. She realised then how thirsty she was, but she wasn't sure if the water was safe. Jane got back down on her knees and scooped some water into her mouth. It was lukewarm, but she gulped down several handfuls. She was perspiring, so she shrugged off her cropped grey jacket.

Jane sniffed the air as she stood. It was dank inside the container, but there must be air holes drilled somewhere. If so, that meant it was either night-time or she was inside the hold and the lights were turned off. She listened closely, and above the engine noise she heard the slight hum of wind rushing along the metal sides of the container. She was on deck. She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious after she'd been dragged into the van and drugged. What she did know, however, was that she had to urinate.

She counted her paces back to the bucket, found it and undid the button and zip on her suit pants and lowered them.

Cooler but saltier air flooded the container and she squinted, holding one hand to her eyes, as a powerful torchlight blinded her. Acutely embarrassed, she tried to stand and pull her pants up at the same time.

‘Stay still! Don't you fucking move a muscle, bitch. Keep squatting there for us.' The accent was American and she knew, with dread, who it was. Mitch Reardon. ‘Remember me, cunt?'

Jane bit her lower lip to stop from crying. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction. She remembered how she had left him crying in pain on the floor of the basement of Alex's hotel. She shivered.

‘That's quite enough of the name calling, Mitchell.'

‘George . . .' she started to stand.

‘No. Do as Mitchell says, Jane. Stay where you are.'

She was confused. ‘For God's sake, let my pull my pants up, George.'

He said nothing and she couldn't see either man, but the one with the torch strode across to her as she started to rise, and swung the long-handled light against the side of her head. She dropped to one knee, knocking over the bucket. The dull thud in her head turned to blinding pain and as she righted herself she saw glints of light at the periphery of her vision.