Trackers (31 page)

I
wondered what she would do when she realised that money would not heal her
wounds.

The shooting of
dangerous animals should be left to experienced rangers who know what they are
doing.

The Art of
Tracking: Dangerous animals

We ate breakfast alone. Chipinduka, the Land Rover driver
said: 'Shumba has gone walking. He sends his greetings, he says goodbye, and
you will always be welcome.'

'He walks a lot?' Lotter asked.

'Every morning and every afternoon.' He took something out of
his breast pocket. 'Shumba said I must give you this.'

I took it and had a look. A business card, the colour of
sand. The image of a paw print.
Cornel van
Jaarsveld.
A Googlemail email address, and a cellphone number.
Not
the same one I got from Lourens.

I heard Lotter ask Chipinduka 'What does "Shumba"
mean?'

'It is Shona for "lion". For the hair. He has the
hair of a lion.'

'Do you know animal tracks?' I asked him.

'I do.'

I showed him Flea's card. 'This track? Which animal is that?'

He studied the paw print. 'I think that is the brown hyena.'

'The
brown
hyena?'

'Yes. It is not like the other hyena.'

'Why?'

'It walks alone.'

While Lotter loosened the plane's guyropes, he asked: 'What's
the plan, Stan?'

I examined the short landing strip, the hills around us.
'Step one is to survive takeoff.'

'And if, by some miracle, we make it?'

'Can you drop me off in Jo'burg, please.'

'You think she's there?'

'Probably not. But my last lead is.' Inkunzi, who had pressed
against Flea and whispered in her ear.

'And you have a score to settle.'

'That may have to wait.'

He raised his eyebrows at me.

'I will probably have to choose between information and
satisfaction. Tough choice.'

'I've noticed that about you,' he said, and began going
through his pre-flight checks.

Both Shonas watched him with great interest. 'You want to go
for a spin?' Lotter asked Chipinduka.

Wide, white smile, heads shaking. 'We are not crazy.'

'Exactly,' I said.

They laughed.

Once Lotter had finished, we said goodbye and got into the
plane.

He was still irritatingly cheerful. 'Ever experienced a
miracle?'

'Not really.'

'Then this should be a big moment for you ...'

The miracle occurred, but I don't know how, my eyes were
tightly shut.

When we reached cruising altitude and Lotter finished talking
pilot dialect over the radio, I asked him if he had ever thought of himself as
an animal.

'What sort of a girly-man question is that anyway?' he asked
in a perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger-accent.

'I think it's the new fashion. Shumba the maned lion, Flea
the brown hyena. Snake was the one who was killed in the hijacking, and I am on
my way to visit Inkunzi the bull. What is it with these people?'

'It's part of our culture, I suppose,' said Lotter,
philosophically. Then, a few minutes later: 'You ever read Laurens van der
Post, the naturalist?'

'No.'

'He wrote about an encounter between a little meerkat and
this six- foot cobra ...'

'And?'

'That's
you, right there. And I don't mean the cobra.' 'Did the meerkat win?'

'Thing
is, I can't remember.'

We landed at Lanseria just after twelve. 'I will have to drop
you on the apron, I have to refuel. By the way, is that shotgun in your bag?'

He had said nothing last night when I came back from my walk
in the dark with Ehrlichmann carrying the MAG-7 and the box of ammunition.
'Yes.'

'Then just tell them we've come from Musina. We don't want
you to go through customs.'

'Thanks, Lotter.'

He shook my hand. 'It's been a pleasure and an education.'

'I can almost say the same, if we leave the Zim airstrip out
of the equation.'

He laughed. 'Good luck, mate. And when it's all over, gimme a
call. I want to know what happens.'

At the car rental I asked if they had
a Ford.

'A Ford?' It seemed to be an indecent suggestion.

'Yes, please.'

'Why?' Very dubious.

'I like Fords.'

She peered sidelong at my battered face while her computer
completed its search. 'I can give you an Ikon.'

'Thank you very much.'

She held my ID book up to the light to make sure it was
genuine. The price of loyalty to Ford. Along with visible wounds.

I drove to Sandton on a freeway that was overcrowded and
slow. Wondered when the Gautrain would start running, because that was the only
thing I had against Johannesburg: this frustrating traffic.

At the Sandton Holiday Inn they didn't discriminate against
my choice of car or my appearance, they gave me a room on the second floor with
a street view. When I had put my bag on the bed, I took out Flea's card and
used the hotel phone to call her cellphone.

It went straight to voicemail. 'This is Cornel. Please leave
a message.' Businesslike, a little hasty. Flea in her efficient vet mode. I
ended the call. Then I called Jeanette to bring her up to date.

My employer was a woman of many talents, but the one that
impressed me most was her unbounded ability to adapt the word 'fuck'. She used
it four times in the course of my narrative, every time with a different
emphasis and meaning. The last one, when I came to the part about the diamonds,
was long and drawn-out, which meant she was deeply impressed by Flea's
entrepreneurial initiative.

'That is why I have to talk to Inkunzi. He is the last
remaining link.'

'Talk, you say?'

'I will also explain politely to him that Body Armour's
personnel should be left in peace.'

'And you expect me to believe you?'

'Jeanette, Nicola's game truck ... Inkunzi could have had the
registration written down. If they want to find us, they will. As much as I
would love to rearrange his face, it's not a sensible option. Lourens and I
would spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.'

'Shee-it,' she said. 'Expect a big storm: Lemmer used the
word "sensible".'

'If something happened to Lourens or Nicola ... Loxton would
never forgive me. In any case, the greater priority is to get the Glock back.'

'Mmm ...' she said. 'And what gives you the idea Inkunzi will
want to talk?'

'I've got a plan.'

'Tell me.'

I did. Once I had finished she said: 'You call that a plan?'

'It could work. Have you got a better idea?'

'My plan is for you to go back to the boondocks and drop the
whole thing. But I know you won't do that. I'll get his home address for you.
Is there anything else you need?'

'Yes. I need a make-up artist, please. My face is a bit too
conspicuous at the moment.'

'Let me see what I can do.'

Because they
rely on their camouflage to remain undetected, Puff Adders account for the
greatest number of serious snakebite cases.

The Art of
Tracking: Dangerous animals

I drove to the address that Jeanette had sent via SMS. The
Bull's kraal, Gallo Manor, a rich man's neighbourhood within spitting distance
of the Johannesburg Country Club, quite a long way down a dead-end street. Big
trees on the pavement, a two-metre plastered wall without electrified wire, the
house barely visible behind it. Shrubs, trees, climbing vines on the other
side of the wall. It would be a dense, tidy garden, filled with shadows.

Electronic gates with CCTV camera, and two signs:
Python Patrols -Alarms & Armed
Response.
And
Python CCTV -Your 24/7 security eye.

I was expecting the alarms. I had planned for them. The
camera was an additional risk, but not insurmountable.

The patrol vehicle of a private security company drove past.
Eagle Eye.
More animal associations. Perhaps
Lotter was right, it was ingrained in our culture.

I turned at the end of the street, pretending to be looking
for an address, came back again, had another good look. Then I drove off;
stopping and staring was not an option in this neighbourhood. And that
presented my biggest problem.

At Sandton City I bought a Panasonic fx37 digital camera, an
Energizer head lamp with a red filter option, a baseball cap, a cheap plastic
spectacle frame, a pair of thin leather gloves and a book to read
- Of Tricksters, Tyrants and Turncoats
by Max du
Preez.

Late that afternoon the make-up artist knocked on my door.
Her name was Wanda and she had a sense of humour. She saw my face. 'I hope the
other guy looks worse.'

She sat me down on the high folding chair she had brought
along. Her aluminium case with brushes, powders, paints and lipsticks was on my
hotel bed. She stood close to me, an attractive woman in her thirties, round
angel face, dark hair, soft eyes, and patted a little round sponge on my face.
She smelled nice.

'How do you know Jeanette?' I asked her.

'In the Biblical sense.' Not a hint of embarrassment.

'Divorced?'

'No. Born that way. And you?'

'Beaten up this way.'

She laughed, a lovely, deep sound.

When she had finished and stood back to admire her work, she
said: 'Don't rub your face. Don't sweat, don't brush against people, don't
scratch if it itches. When you go to bed, wash it off with soap and water.'
Then she held up a hand mirror so I could see her handiwork.

'Brad Pitt,' I said.

'Bad
Pitt.' She laughed and began to pack
away her stuff.

'Jeanette did tell you it could be a contract for a few
days?'

'She did. I am available in the late afternoon, so that's
OK.'

'What do you do usually?'

'I freelance. Mostly in the TV industry.'

'Did you ever work on
7de Laan,
the soapie?' I asked hopefully.

'No. Do you watch
7 de Laan?'

'Absolutely.'

She shook her head in amazement. 'What a wonderful world,'
she said, and I wondered what Jeanette had told her about me.

I carried her folding chair to her car, said goodbye, went
back to my room, closed the curtains and tested the Panasonic camera in the
gloom. Ten megapixels and five times optical zoom, intelligent autofocus, which
controlled almost everything when an idiot had only one chance to take a
picture.

Exactly what I needed.

Then I took the Yellow Pages out of the drawer and looked up
a taxi service that operated in Sandton.

The Bull Run was a pleasant surprise. It was opposite the
Stock Exchange, right next to the Balalaika Hotel, the decor was tasteful and
simple, the walls bare brick and there was a fire burning in the hearth, a
butcher's counter
where you could buy fresh meat to take
home.

By half past six it was half full. The bar had the best view
over the restaurant, but would make me too conspicuous. I asked for a table in
the corner. The young waitress in white shirt and black apron, looking curiously
at the black sports bag that I had brought along, showed me to a table. I sat
down with my back half turned to the room, and opened the menu. I studied it
for a long time before raising my head to look around.

Julius 'Inkunzi' Shabangu wasn't there.

I asked if they had Birdfield grape juice. No, the waitress
said. I ordered salad with deep-fried haloumi and a red Grapetizer and asked
the waitress what time they closed. That depends, she said. Usually late,
around one a.m.

I started the book, wondered whether I should contact the
writer and tell him about the new generation of tricksters.

The Grapetizer arrived, later the salad. I ordered a
pepper-crusted steak, medium, said there was no hurry.

No sign of the Bull.

By half past eight the place was full. Two big groups of
businessmen, quite a few tables for six with laughing, chatty
twenty-year-olds, black and white, so easy in each other's company, as if our
country had no history. It was like that in the shopping centres and the
streets, as though this city was a vision of what we could be if the dark
shadow of poverty could be wiped away.