African Dawn (34 page)

He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked and how much she reminded him of Hope, but in a good way. He knew the words would come out all wrong and that he would either sound like a maudlin old fool or some sort of sad loser.

‘Come, sit down,’ she said. ‘I'm thirsty.’ She picked up a big glass of iced water and downed half of it while he laid a hand on the back of his chair and lowered himself into it. ‘Relax, Tate. We've already established I'm not going to bite.’

He felt his face flush, but sat and picked up the menu. He ordered soup and the beef. Natalie ordered the same.

‘It's been a hell of a day,’ she said.

He took the champagne from the ice bucket and refilled both their glasses. ‘It has indeed.’

‘Scary … terrifying, in fact. Tragic, frustrating, and beautiful this evening. How is it that this place can conjure up so many conflicting emotions in such a short time?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose it's what keeps me here. The unpredictability of it. I don't think I could ever live anywhere safe and normal. It'd drive me crazy.’

She laughed. ‘Funny, I would have said the opposite of you, that you craved order and normality.’

He frowned. ‘You know, until just now, I probably would have said you were right, yet here we are.’

‘Yet here we are.’ She leaned across the table and her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. She clinked her glass against his. ‘Thanks for a wonderful day.’

Tate drank some more of the champagne and thought that he could have sat there all night looking into those eyes. As the first course came and went – they were both ravenous – she asked him about his research work, and about rhinos he had translocated from one part of Africa to another. He was passionate about his work and enjoyed talking to her about it. He felt relaxed in her company, in the sense that he no longer regarded her as a prying journalist who might feign interest in him to get him to say something controversial, but he was also acutely aware of his growing attraction to her. It scared him.

She twirled a finger in her hair as she told him of some of her own adventures as a journalist. While she worked for a travel magazine now, she had started on local newspapers, covering police and court stories as a young cadet, then moved on to a major daily newspaper where she covered federal politics for a while. She tried to talk it down, to make it sound like just another job, but he could see that she, too, cared about what she did. ‘I got sick of politics – I learned pretty quickly there wasn't much difference between politicians, whatever their party, but it did have its moments.’

‘Really?’ Tate said.

‘The crowning glory of my political reporting career was when a cleaner from Parliament House told me he'd busted a senior politician having sex with a member of a rival party.’ She leaned across the table, adopting a conspiratorial tone.

‘And,’ she said, placing her elbows on the table, ‘guess what?’

‘What?’ He didn't recognise the names of the people she was talking about, but they were obviously well known in Australia. Natalie reached out and laid her fingers on his, which were resting on the table on the base of his wineglass. He felt tingling jolts of electricity racing from his extremities to his heart. ‘They
did
it in the chamber, in Parliament House … in the speaker's chair! What do you think of that?’

He didn't care about these strangers and it was all he could do to smile and laugh a little instead of stare down at her hand on his. His heart was pounding so much he was sure it must be visible to her.

‘The story went national, but afterwards I felt bad about it. I mean, they were just two people, having fun, and I'd helped shame them. I didn't like that side of journalism and I was much happier when I got a gig as deputy travel editor. I loved it, and from there moved to the magazine. But it's funny, now, thinking about those two in the parliamentary chamber. I'd never have the courage to do something like that … I'd be too scared of getting caught, wouldn't you?’ she said.

‘Um …' He was trying to follow her conversation, but her smile and her eyes were entrancing. He felt himself flush once more, at her question. How was he supposed to answer that?’

‘Have you ever … you know … in a public place?’ She hadn't moved her hand.

‘Well … um … there was a train trip, coming home from boarding school, when I was seventeen. There was a girl …’

‘Tate!’ Natalie squealed. ‘You sly
dog
! I
am
impressed. God, that's a fantasy of mine – on a train.’

He felt his cheeks burning and suddenly regretted saying anything, though at the same time he was pleased by the reaction he'd provoked in her. The waitress knocked and opened the door. She looked inside, hesitantly, then smiled when she realised everything was OK and Natalie wasn't screaming because a black mamba had slid into the suite. She wheeled in a trolley bearing their main course and a bottle of red wine. ‘Courtesy of Mr Neil,’ she said when Tate pointed out he hadn't ordered more wine.

‘Oh dear,’ Natalie said as the waitress left them again, ‘I'm afraid I'm going to be pissed tonight and unwell tomorrow.’

Tate shrugged and poured some red for both of them.

‘So, about this train …’ Natalie grinned at him. She'd had to remove her hand from his when the food had arrived, but Tate could still feel her touch on his skin.

‘Not much to tell, I'm afraid.’ He chewed some steak and took a sip of wine. ‘There was a girl … she and I used to see each other on our way to and from boarding school at the beginning and end of each term. I didn't really know her that well. But someone had smuggled some beer and cigarettes onto the train and everyone was drinking. And later, as we chugged through the night, we found ourselves alone …’

‘Don't stop.’ She took a big sip of wine.

‘There's not much more to tell.’

She narrowed her eyes a little. ‘Don't tease.’ Her voice seemed deeper, huskier. ‘I want details.’

He thought about what she had said, that this was her fantasy. He swallowed. He could feel his penis shifting in his pants, chafing against the fabric as it started to swell. ‘We were both young … inexperienced. We talked, for a long time, into the night. I'm sure she made the first move, but we ended up kissing.’

He didn't know whether to go on. He could see her breasts moving up and down with her breathing, though she said nothing. There was a crooked smile playing across her face.

‘It was my first proper kiss with a girl. It was … God, it was so long ago, and I haven't thought about it for ages, but now that I do I can still taste her.’

Natalie shifted in her seat, but her eyes didn't leave him. He felt a pressure on his leg and realised it was her foot. Instinctively he moved his leg, but her foot followed him and pressed against his, her calf resting against the inside of his leg.

It felt hot in the room, and he was breathing quicker. He took a gulp of wine. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly as his eyes widened and she increased the pressure of her leg against his. Instead of moving he tensed the muscles in his own leg, meeting her rubbing with resistance.

‘Don't stop …’ she whispered.

He was confused. There was not a lot more to tell. They had kissed and he had eventually plucked up the courage to brush a hand against her breast, through the fabric of her school shirt. He'd figured that if he had gone too far she would pull away and tell him so, and he could claim it was an accident. But she hadn't. Instead, she'd issued a soft moan through their passionate kiss and that sound came back clearly to him now as he watched Natalie chase a stray drop of wine from her lips with the point of her tongue. Emboldened, he'd fumbled with two buttons and slipped a hand beneath the layers and into the heavily engineered bra. Did Natalie want to hear all that?

‘Did you actually … you know?’ Natalie's finger was near her throat now, tracing a line down the edge of her shirt, along the skin. Tate watched its path and didn't care that her eyes dropped to see what he was looking at. Her finger slid slowly lower until it came to a rest at the V formed by her top button.

He looked back up into her eyes. ‘No … not that … but it was a night of several firsts for me.’

A knock at the door made both of them look away. ‘Are you finished your main courses yet?’

Natalie exhaled. ‘I'm finished. I'm full. That was lovely, thank you.’ She dabbed her mouth with the serviette as Tate gratefully shovelled the last of his food into his mouth. Natalie had moved her leg and he felt a slight sense of relief now that the moment of tension seemed to have been broken.

‘Dessert?’

‘Not for me,’ Natalie said.

‘Nor me,’ said Tate.

The girl smiled broadly as she collected their plates. ‘Then I will leave you in peace. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, madam.’

Tate walked the waitress to the door and handed her a tip. When he closed it he saw Natalie was standing as well. He didn't know which part of the room to move to. If he suggested the lounge suite she might take it the wrong way. They were both borderline drunk. If he said he was going to bed, what would she make of that? She lowered her eyes and to his shame Tate felt the bulge in his shorts. He turned back to the door, making a show of attaching the security chain. ‘It's not unsafe here, but you never can tell, particularly with what we've been through today and …’

When he turned to look back over his shoulder he saw that she had advanced on him, closing the distance between them. There was no reason for her to be walking towards the door. The reminiscing about the girl on the train, the feel of her provocative touch on his leg, the finger at her neck, the look in her eyes and the slight parting of her lips all coalesced in his scientist's brain and told him, with undeniable certainty, that there was no way he would ever, in a million years, be able to explain what was going on right now, and what he was feeling. A heat rose in him and pounded in his chest. She was within reach of him, but she had stopped, and now she stared at him.

She was beautiful, she was single and she had touched him in a way that told him he should take her in his arms right now. Natalie smiled and though he had seen her do that so many times since they'd met, he knew now why it transfixed and pleased him so. The eyes, the mouth, even the hair … they were all Hope's.

Tate closed his eyes as the desire consumed him, fed by the despair that welled up from inside him. He had to tell her. He opened his eyes again and spread his arms, palms outwards. He was about to confess to her when Natalie surged forward and fell against him. ‘Oh, God, Tate …’ She raised herself up on her toes and sought his mouth with hers. Tate was overcome with surprise by the force of her and nearly fell backwards. Instead, he locked his arms around her and wheeled her, in a kind of dance, until she was leaning with her back against the hotel room door. He couldn't resist the hot, wet allure of her mouth and he kissed her hard. It had been so long since he'd held a woman or kissed like that. Natalie clawed at his back and he dropped a hand to her bottom and pulled her closer.

Natalie ground against him and he felt his erection quickly return to full bloom. She moved her lips from his and he felt her hot breath on his ear. ‘Touch me.’

He needed no further urging. Tate moved his free hand between them. Natalie's skirt had already ridden up partially as she hooked a leg around him. He felt the warm, smooth skin of her thighs and to his shock encountered no barrier as his fingers brushed her soft, damp curls. He'd recalled the moan that had come from the girl on the train and now he felt himself making the same involuntary groan. Natalie murmured her assent as he parted her and she kissed him again on the mouth, hard enough for him to feel her teeth graze his lower lip. She was touching him now, searching for his zip. He craved her touch, but he was even more aroused by the way she was moving against him. He had found the hard little nub between her soft lips and Natalie's breath was coming in short, sharp bursts as he teased and rubbed her.

She closed her eyes and threw back her head and the sight of her neck, and her blonde hair hanging down, and the feel of the way she craved more of his touch aroused him more than anything he'd experienced since he'd lost Hope. Natalie reached for him and managed to undo the top button of his shorts. He could feel her orgasm building as her breathing intensified in response to his touch. She nodded her head up and down in short, sharp movements, urging him, telling him he was doing it right. She bit down on her lower lip and drew in a deep breath.

Just as it looked like she might climax on his fingers, Natalie pulled down his zipper and wrapped her hand around the girth of his cock. She pumped her hand once, twice, three times as he increased the movements of his own fingers.

In that moment of almost overpowering desire he half-closed his eyes and she appeared before him, unbidden, although she was never very far away. He saw her long blonde hair and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. He heard again, as he did in his nightmares, the last words Hope had said to him.
‘It was nothing, Tate. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.’

Tate broke away from Natalie and, hurriedly zipping his pants, opened the hotel room door and ran out onto the landing.

28

B
raedan and Natalie sat in the beer garden of the Brass Monkey pub, next to the TM Supermarket in the Bulawayo suburb of Hillside. A glossy starling pecked at a chip that had fallen from Natalie's plate, and Braedan waved it away.

The three weeks since she and Tate had chased the poachers had gone by too quickly, and she hadn't achieved half of what she'd needed to in order to make a start on her book. She and Tate had been summoned to see the police again the morning after their intimate dinner. Tate had mumbled an apology to her and had said something about wanting to keep their relationship purely professional. She'd felt hurt and had wanted to discuss it with him, but Nicholas Duncan had driven to Victoria Falls to collect them and they could hardly discuss what had gone on in his company, on the trip back to Hwange National Park. Once back in the reserve Tate had said he would stay at Robins Camp for a couple more days of meetings with senior national parks staff who had come to investigate the rhino's slaying. Natalie had taken the Toyota back to her grandparents' place by herself, leaving Tate to hitchhike back once his business was concluded.

On the ranch, her grandparents had smothered her with attention after her ordeal with the poachers. Braedan had been working nights, out patrolling the ranch with his men, and sleeping days, so she'd barely had a chance to talk to him. Just when she'd arranged to spend a free day with him, the national parks and police officers had arrived. This trip was turning into a nightmare, but she'd finally managed some time alone with Braedan again so she could interview him.

Natalie picked at her roast chicken, but she wasn't particularly hungry. Her eye was drawn once more to the front page of the
Bulawayo Chronicle
, despite her fervent wish that the words would somehow disappear.

‘
RHINO RANCHER UNDER SUSPICION OF POACHING AS MINISTER'S NAME IS CLEARED
’ read the headline of the lead story.

‘Everyone knows that paper's full of shit. It's just another government mouthpiece, like the
Herald
,’ Braedan said, stirring sugar into his coffee.

‘I
know
, but it all seems so hopeless.’ She folded her arms and slumped back in her seat. ‘My grandfather's an old man, Braedan, and I'm worried what this will do to him. I didn't know it, but Grandma Pip told me he had a heart attack a few years ago.’

‘He's a tough old bugger, hey,’ Braedan said.

But she wasn't reassured. ‘Aren't you worried about the loss of the rhino horn from the ranch?’

Braedan nodded. ‘Of course. Especially as it happened on my watch, but at least the rhino wasn't killed, thank God. Ngwenya's getting desperate, but the real risk is not that he'll kill another rhino, but rather that he'll take over the whole ranch.’

Natalie felt sick at the lies splashed across the front page.

Bulawayo: Police are investigating the loss of a rhino horn with a value of hundreds of thousands of dollars from a ranch near Plumtree owned by once-lauded conservationists Paul and Philippa Bryant.

The
Chronicle
can reveal that a snap audit by parks and wildlife officers found last week that the Bryants were unable to account for a horn believed to have been removed from a healthy black rhinoceros.

Police spokesman Inspector Wayne Chisango said rhinos at the Bryant property were regularly dehorned as a deterrent to poachers and the horns surrendered to the Zimbabwean Parks and Wildlife Service for safekeeping.

‘Acting on an anonymous tip-off, rangers made an unannounced inspection of the ranch on Thursday and found that eight of the ranch's fourteen black rhinos had been dehorned, but parks and wildlife had records of only seven horns in their custody,’ Inspector Chisango said.

When questioned by police Mr Bryant was unable to account for the missing horn. Inspector Chisango said Bryant was continuing to assist police with their investigations as the
Chronicle
went to press.

In other news, a government spokesman announced today that embattled Assistant Minister for Land Redistribution Cde Emmerson Ngwenya has been cleared of all allegations of involvement in the poaching earlier this month of a black rhino from Hwange National Park.

Mr Ngwenya was involved in an altercation with poachers when he and his ministerial driver stopped to render assistance to the drivers of a vehicle that appeared to be broken down, near Victoria Falls. When the occupants of the vehicle, who turned out to be rhino poachers, pulled a gun on Cde Ngwenya, the Minister and his driver fled the scene. Hwange police had been alerted to the presence of criminals in the area and were in pursuit of the poachers. In a shootout following a traffic accident between his government vehicle and the poachers' bakkie, Mr Ngwenya shot the three poachers when they again tried to kill him.

The MDC-T faction tried to get parliament to reopen the police investigation that cleared the innocent Mr Ngwenya of any wrongdoing, but government members of parliament,
voting with other opposition parties, successfully defeated the move in parliament yesterday.

‘This man is a hero and deserves a medal for bravery, not the baseless and spurious muck-raking that is the hallmark of the MDC,’ the President said following yesterday's vote.

Natalie tossed the paper back on the table in disgust. ‘You think Ngwenya's behind the missing rhino horn?’

Braedan set his empty coffee cup down on its saucer and leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped. ‘I'm certain of it. Think about it – it all fits. He's obviously the head man in the poaching syndicate, right?’

Natalie nodded. ‘I doubt even the most ardent of government voters believes that rubbish about him just stumbling upon the poachers. Tate and I saw his limousine parked near the poachers' vehicle. They were talking and no one was threatening anyone. He was there to collect the rhino horn, for sure.’

‘Of course he was, but he couldn't take it with him. He couldn't be caught with the evidence when the police arrived, so he killed all the witnesses who could have linked him to the crime. So what does he do, given that he couldn't get away with the rhino horn?’

‘Steals a horn from one of Grandpa Paul's rhinos without killing it?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But why didn't he just get someone to kill the rhino, and how did he take the horn?’

‘Aha!’ Braedan raised a finger over his head as if it was a light bulb being switched on. ‘Because he's not stupid. Ngwenya sent someone onto the property armed with a dart gun, loaded with M99 probably – it's the same stuff Tate uses when he wants to immobilise a rhino. Ngwenya's man drugs the rhino and chops off the horn. When the job's done the poacher gives the rhino the antidote and slips away.’

‘Sounds like a lot of trouble to go to,’ Natalie said.

‘It is. You're supposed to be a qualified vet to immobilise a rhino, although it is possible to do a course and be registered to hold M99 for use in relocating game. Either way, you have to know exactly what you're doing.’

‘Then why bother going to the trouble to find and pay someone who can do this?’

‘Two reasons.’ Braedan held up his index finger again. ‘One, it's quiet. No one heard gunfire and no one was alarmed, at first. Two, the rhino lives, so it can sire more offspring and, in time, regrow its horn. It's not the first time this has happened. In South Africa there have been rhino killed on private game reserves by people using darts to give the animal a silent overdose. I've also heard of a case of a noble-minded poacher darting a rhino and then bringing it around once the horn had been cut off. There's even a term for it down south – “Eco Poaching”.’

Natalie shook her head. ‘And Ngwenya wants the rhino alive on Grandpa's ranch because he wants to take over the place …’ Braedan nodded, but Natalie knew it wasn't as simple as Ngwenya walking onto the property and staking his claim, as thousands of so-called veterans of the liberation war had done with farms across the country. ‘But the ranch has survived all the farm invasions so far, with the exception of some crop-growing land that Grandpa Paul ceded to the local community.’

Braedan leaned over and stabbed the newspaper on the table. ‘But now we have this. Ngwenya probably called someone in parks and wildlife as soon as he'd taken the horn from the drugged rhino and set them onto your grandfather. The inference is that he's selling the horns from his own rhinos, animals entrusted into his care by the state for captive breeding.’

‘That's preposterous,’ Natalie snorted.

‘I know that, and you know that, but it gives Ngwenya a green light to make his next move,’ Braedan said.

Something else struck Natalie as odd about the theft of the horn. ‘How come no one noticed the rhino's horn was missing? I mean, it's a pretty big animal.’

‘You're right,’ Braedan conceded, spreading his hands. ‘But to be fair, your grandfather sometimes gets a bit mixed up with the names of the rhinos and numbers of horned and dehorned animals. I don't know them all by sight yet, so I'm partly to blame for not being on top of it. Doctor Nkomo should have known, because the men he supervises, to track the wild rhinos, should have reported it to him. There seems to have been a forty-eight hour period where the rhino involved wasn't spotted by anyone, and when he finally was, the news was already out about the missing horn. We had two scouts away on leave – mysteriously they both claimed to be sick and had to go to the clinic the morning before the horn was taken – and that left Doctor short of two trackers. Also I was in town getting supplies that day. It was a catalogue of errors that we're trying to ensure doesn't happen again, and as the man in charge I'm as much to blame as anyone.’

There was something else that was troubling Natalie. She'd seen photos of Emmerson Ngwenya on the web when she was researching Zimbabwe's troubled state of affairs, but it had been a very different experience when she'd seen him first-hand, standing wild-eyed in the middle of the road holding a gun, dead bodies around him. He had smiled at her and she had felt the physical, lung-crushing grip of pure terror.

‘Natalie?’

‘What?’ She looked up at Braedan. ‘Sorry, I was somewhere else.’

He smiled, but it didn't cheer her. ‘A million miles away by the look of it.’

‘No, thirty years away,’ she said.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

She folded the newspaper so that the headline was face down. ‘No, not right now, but I want you to.’ Natalie reached into her daypack and pulled out a digital voice recorder, little bigger than the cigarette lighter Braedan took from his pocket and used to light up. ‘I've been waiting weeks to talk to you.’

‘I've been dreading this, but yes, I suppose now's as good a time as ever,’ Braedan said, smiling through the exhaled smoke.

She liked being in his company. He was self-assured, easygoing, and when he smiled his eyes glowed. She was sure he was suppressing some terrible memories, but unlike Tate, Braedan seemed to have the ability to get on with life and to find the humorous or the irreverent in even the bleakest of situations. ‘I suppose the rhinos are safe without me for another hour, even if half of them are stoned on drugs at the moment.’

Natalie placed the recorder on the table and waited for the waiter to clear their plates away. She'd barely finished half her chicken and felt guilty about leaving it, in a country where the poverty line was an impossible aspiration for so many. ‘I'll have a Castle,’ Braedan said to the man. ‘I have a feeling I'm going to need a beer.’

She took out a pen and notebook and flipped it open. Natalie always took notes, just in case the recorder wasn't working properly or it ran out of batteries without her noticing. God, she thought, why was she even putting herself through all this? Writing a book was a much bigger endeavour than putting together a feature story for a magazine or newspaper – the difference between taking out a kayak for a quick paddle on one of Sydney's rivers and crossing the Atlantic in a rowboat. It was daunting enough given the number of words she would have to write, but as she flicked the toggle on the recorder she realised that she was also about to embark on the most difficult interview of her life.

‘Tell me about what happened, the day you parachuted into Grandpa Paul's farm. The day you saved me …’

He flicked an imaginary flake of tobacco off his lip then closed his eyes for a moment as he drew another deep lungful of smoke. Halfway through exhaling he opened his eyes and pierced her with his stare. ‘What, specifically, do you want to know?’

‘All of it.’

He shook his head. ‘Most of it's in three or four books about the Bush War and the RLI. You can read about how we jumped in, how the boys and me were pretty much on our own – no air support, no command and control for most of the time.’

‘I've read the books.’

‘Then what do you really want to know, Natalie?’

‘I want to know what really happened.’

He swallowed and looked away from her. ‘It's all in the history books.’

‘No, it's not. Look at me, Braedan.’

He beckoned to the waiter for another beer. The first one had disappeared quickly and he set the empty bottle down on the table.

‘The man you shot, the man who had hold of me … he wasn't the one who kidnapped me from the farmhouse. He was part of a different group of terrs.’

Braedan shrugged, accepted his next Castle with a nod of thanks, and raised the bottle to his lips. ‘So what? There were two groups operating in the area and they linked up. The guy I shot must have taken you off the other one.’

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to recall the images she had spent thirty years trying to forget. ‘There was so much shooting.’ When she opened her eyes again she saw he was looking at her, but he glanced away once more.

‘
Ja
. The lead was flying.’

‘I think they might have been shooting at each other before you arrived.’

He picked at the sodden label of the bottle, peeling it. ‘That's possible – not even unusual. What you have to remember is that in 1979, when things were coming to a head in Rhodesia, the blacks were also fighting among themselves. Mugabe's ZANLA and Nkomo's ZIPRA hated each other, on tribal and political grounds. It was a three-way contest sometimes. The Special Branch and army intelligence guys used to keep scoreboards of terrs killed by each other and terrs killed by us. We used to joke about it, saying our aim was to kill more of them than they killed of each other.’