Dark Intent (8 page)

Malakazi township

Shortly after the doctor showed the guerillas to his sister-in-law’s house he removed the bullet in Ngubane’s shoulder and wrapped him in a bandage that all but hid his chest.
He promised to return the next morning and for the remainder of the day Nofomela and Ngwenya stayed alongside their friend as he slept. The house was only of three rooms but the woman had no children and her husband was in prison for burglary. She gave them a room at the back, her manner curt and formal and she made it clear she was housing them under sufferance.

‘I want to be amongst our own people,’ said Ngwenya, standing at the window that overlooked the encroaching bush.
It was early evening and they had been out to get something to eat. ‘I hate having to watch my trail constantly.’

‘We’ll soon be out
of KwaZulu,’ said Nofomela. ‘The ANC is at last in central government and that’s where we will go. Inkatha will die like a cancerous limb.’

‘They’
ll never relinquish their warring instinct,’ said Ngwenya. ‘Look at scum like Shozi . He reviles the Xhosa, calls them cowards, pigs.’ He rolled a globule of saliva with his tongue and spat it onto the concrete. ‘If only we had the men to take him and put a necklace over his head.’

‘Forget Shozi,’ said Nofomela.
‘We didn’t kill him. He’s too well protected. We must be calm and now that we are back in this country wait for the call to help the objectives of our comrades.’

Ngwenya squinted at Ngubane, lying as still as a board under the grey blankets, breathing noisily.
‘We’re bound by him,’ he said coldly. ‘For days we’ll be harboured in this miserable room, with Inkatha gangsters digging into every crevice. Our safety lies in the bush. How do we know the doctor and Dhlamini can be trusted? They might be leading them to us now.’

Nofomela moved wraith-like over the floor and patted his colleague.
‘These thoughts will destroy you,’ he said philosophically. ‘Ngubane will recover and in a day or two we’ll be gone from here. Patience, my friend, he needs us.’

Near Moses Shozi’s house

Before four, Krige and Dalton reached Shozi’s valley, out
of sight of the house and 100 metres from the path that joined Umbali and Malakazi. The wind that had fanned the feathery-green grassland through the day had abated, giving in to solitary silence.              When Krige, walking ahead, reached the path he crossed it and steered for higher ground, climbing to the crest of a hill.

‘There’s the target,’ said
Krige, coming to a halt and turning to Dalton. ‘This would’ve been perfect but the range is too great. I want to be sure of a shot through the head.’ They shielded themselves behind some scrub and 800 metres below them they had a bird’s eye view of the house and the guards’ quarters at the rear. There was no one in sight.

They
concentrated on the buildings for a while longer then left their spot, finally going over the path to the bottom of the valley below the road. Neither one spoke, each with his private thoughts. For a while they followed the narrow stream, occasionally driving speckled partridges from their nests in the bank and exciting a lone steel-blue kingfisher that flew up and down its domain.

‘Up here,’ said
Krige at last, stepping agilely through the shallow waters and making for the
kopje
between them and the house. They positioned themselves amongst the rocks, close to where Ngubane had rested the previous night.

‘This is too close,’
said Dalton. ‘We might as well sit in his house.’

‘I told you this is where we’
d come,’ said Krige, unsheathing the rifle and laying it on the bag. ‘When their master dies at their feet they’ll be dumbstruck. We’ll be in the next valley before they start looking.’

‘
Very clever Major,’ said Dalton. ‘And when is he supposed to appear?’

‘His men spend hours around the pot every evening
,’ said Krige, getting annoyed at Dalton’s constant sarcasm and beginning to wish he was alone. ‘If he’s there he’ll join them.’

‘
Thanks for telling me,’ said Dalton. ‘I thought you were pushing your luck, hoping to get a shot at him. You knew all the time that he eats with his guard. You’re not one for sharing information. I suppose you know precisely how you’re going to kill the guerillas. What if they’re not there? We’ll be left standing in the dirt with our dicks in our hands.’

If ever he had been close to annihilating
someone physically, Krige knew it was now and the person was Dalton. He remembered the acrimony he had felt towards Richter and Koch on the Cartwright job and he wondered if the group could ever find men of class, the breed needed for this type of operation. His training in the police had taught him the importance of staying calm and not reacting to puerile comments however much they fuelled his native instincts. But sometimes he failed and he wondered if this was going to be one such failure. He was so close.

‘
The guerillas have been there for a month,’ said Krige. ‘It would be too much of a coincidence if they’ve gone when we’re about to strike.’ He checked the mount underneath the scope, fighting his impulse. ‘You sound as it you’re about to crack,’ he said. ‘You can leave. I told you I can do this job alone.’

‘Like hell you can, not all of them,’ said Dalton.
‘I’m interested in seeing a full score. It makes sense to keep me informed.’

‘For what reason?
I’m doing the work,’ said Krige. ‘Perhaps you think I’ll get killed. Do you really think you can go it alone?’

‘
Yes,’ said Dalton, annoyed at Krige’s superior intelligence.

‘And now you know everything,’ said
Krige coolly. ‘It’s as much as I do. There’s no certainty in this game until the corpses are at your feet in a line, going hard.’

Krige
turned then suddenly bent lower. ‘Get down. The place is coming to life.’ He held the binoculars on the yard between the house and the quarters. ‘There’re twelve of them and no sign of Shozi.’ He gave the glasses to Dalton and took the magazine from a pocket in the bag. He inserted it into the rifle and, rotating the bolt, shunted one of the cartridges into the breech. Making himself comfortable, he poked the weapon through a V in the rocks and placed his eye to the lens.

For over an hour they silently watched the activities in the yard and long shadows were beginning to disfigure the valley when
Krige inched his trigger finger forwards. ‘Our man’s arrived,’ he said in a monotone. ‘He’s just come out of the house with someone else.’

Dalton lifted himself carefully.
‘Which one is he?’

‘I showed you his picture.’
Krige stabbed at the safety catch with his thumb. ‘He’s the one on the left. Do you still want him to die? He hates the ANC.’

‘He’
s a kaffir,’ said Darlton defiantly.

Krige
lined up the crosshairs, the flow of adrenalin pumping through his veins like an opiate. ‘The waiting is over,’ he murmured, firming up on the gun.

Moses Shozi’s house

Moses Shozi was restless, drinking from the stock of bottled beer he kept in the fridge, at times sitting, then prowling around the house. He was angry that only by sheer chance he had been able to avert death and repel the Xhosa guerilla, a man he had come to detest from the depths of his soul. For hours he pondered on suitable retribution, bitter that the men employed to defend him had failed. That he had hurt the guerilla was certain. The solid impact of the first bullet and the agony on his face was evidence. At dawn his men had searched the valley and those to the east and west but by early afternoon they had found no trace, not even a drop of blood.

After a nap to ward off the effects of the beer, Shozi began to prepare himself for a march on Malakazi where the Xhosas had first been seen.
He ordered Setlaba to be ready with the men to move out when the evening meal was over, a ritual he enjoyed as it helped him keep in tune with what was going on in the valleys.

When the cooking fire had reduced to an orange glow and the rich stew was simmering in the pots, Shozi clad his hefty body in the long shorts and loose-fitting shirt he favoured when not formally on parade before his superiors in Inkatha.
Setlaba waited for him in the lounge, annoyed at the slow deliberations of the man to whom he was inextricably bound.

At last Shozi came down the stairs, routinely suspending his belt and revolver on the balustrade. He was still in a dark mood. Setlaba, above the others, was responsible for his security and therefore he was primarily to blame for the ease with which the guerilla had got into the house.
Perhaps Setlaba was only capable when the enemy was as weak as Mrs Mkhize’s sons and he had the others behind him.

The lieutenant sensed his master’s mood and warned himself to be careful.
He did not want to end his days prematurely, left to decay in some hastily dug grave. Shozi held no compunction in quartering the bodies of his opponents and those of his own men who did not meet his standards.

‘The men are ready,’ he ventured.
‘Will you kill Dhlamini?’

Shozi gave a rude belch
. ‘Dhlamini’s of little consequence, a puppet. The man I want is the one who was here last night, the guerilla. Only his death and the deaths of his friends will satisfy me.’ He walked to the shattered glass door, the jagged hole temporarily covered by a piece of wood, and gazed out over the veld. ‘It is time to add firearms to our traditional weapons. The Xhosa wasn’t armed but these men have access to Kalashnikovs. If we don’t kill them they’ll come with their guns and we must be adequately prepared.’

‘What about tonight?’
Setlaba was unnerved by the thought of going against guns with only a
panga.

‘There is no time,’ said Shozi, fl
ecks of saliva shooting from his mouth. ‘Tonight we’ll rely on the steel of our blades. If we find them, they’re dead.’ He left the doors and went over the carpet on his raft-like feet. Setlaba followed him through the kitchen onto the porch where the guard had been killed, the reddish-brown stain from the large pool of blood still evident.

For a moment
Shozi stood on the porch, absorbing the aroma from the pots. Then he went onto the brushed earth that stretched between the house and the guard’s quarters, feeling the first pangs of hunger. Thick African mats had been laid round the fire and he sat cross-legged facing the house, waiting while one of the men spooned a generous helping of stew onto an enamel plate put before him. Setlaba sat opposite and the guards helped themselves, hungrily piling the food onto their dishes and breaking off chunks of bread on the mat. The men chattered amongst themselves, keeping nothing from the warlord’s ears. They were all Zulus and members of Inkatha and the traditional tribal bond of loyalty was never stronger.

The bullet came with a sharp supersonic clap in its wake and skimmed through the fat on Shozi’
s neck, administering pain, the bite from a cat’s fangs. His left hand flew to the incision, releasing the plate to disgorge the contents onto his lap and he rubbed his neck vigorously, spreading the blood in the gory impression of an aspiring artist’s first work. He scrambled up and went over the fire, landing between Setlaba and a guard and then towards the house. ‘I’ve been shot,’ he shouted. In a few strides he was on the porch and then into the lounge. His men dropped their plates in alarm and with Setlaba in the lead ran to the wall of the house.

‘It came from over there,’ cried Setlaba, trying to work out the direction from the sound.
‘Spread out and encircle him. We cannot fail.’ He formed his arms into the shape of a pair of buffalo horns then marshaled his men, splitting them into two groups. They went off, running for the protection offered by the grass.

The lieutenant waited until they had gone then went into the house in search of Shozi, fearful of his master’s rage and regretting the warlord had not been killed.

Moses Shozi’s house

In the rocks Krige pulled in the rifle. ‘He’s still alive. I was certain it was his last meal. It means going in to get him.’

‘I thought you could use that thing,’ said Dalton acidly,
training the glasses on the house. ‘You screwed it. He’s disappeared and the others have left the fire. You could’ve made sure.’

Krige
wrapped the cloth round the scope and unzipped the bag. The weapon was now of no value.

‘They’re coming in this direction,’ said Dalton.
‘You can pick them off.’

Krige
bagged the rifle and assessed the threat posed by the guards as they deployed themselves in a pincer movement. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to stand here like a psychopath and gun them down unnecessarily. Shozi’s the target.’

‘What’s the problem
?’ said Dalton. ‘The more we get the better. We can wipe them out and then get Shozi. What a collection. Imagine the press headlines - warlord and his guard destroyed.’

‘Forget it,’ said
Krige, wishing he had killed Shozi when the chance was there. We’re moving out until later. You’re coming with me.’

Dalton got up, keeping his head beneath the top of the rocks.
‘That was a wasted opportunity if ever I saw one.’ He followed Krige as the farmer ran towards the stream.

Relentlessly th
e guards closed in on the
kopje
, chanting as they ran each one eager to be the one who brought in the man who had fired the shot. Their noise spurred the whites on between the thickets and they accelerated and swerved in bursts. When they reached the stream Krige turned at ninety degrees away from Malakazi and followed the bed as it wound through rushes and the adjacent plantation. In seconds they had disappeared, devoured by the natural landscape, leaving no sign of their passing except to the finest tracker.

Once
into the trees Krige stopped, listening for sounds of the chase. ‘Take cover,’ he said. ‘Don’t use your gun unless I say so.’

They slithered separately into the undergrowth, choosing clumps of bush and hiding amongst the leaves.
Overhead a mynah bird emitted an angry shriek, ruffling its feathers indignantly and piercing the air with its yellow beak. Then there was silence.

The minutes ticked by without sign of the guards and
Krige checked his watch. It was twenty minutes after they had fled the rocks. He left the bush he was behind and moved to Dalton, leaving the rifle on the ground. ‘Looks as if we’ve lost them,’ he said.

‘What’s the plan Major?’
Dalton removed pieces of vegetation from his shirt. ‘I hope it’s more successful.’

Krige
fell, taking Dalton by the sleeve and to his knees.

‘What are you doing?’
Dalton removed his hand angrily. ‘You’re going mad. Let’s get out of here.’ He was about to vacate the bush when Krige cautioned him roughly. ‘Keep still.’ His mouth parted narrowly. ‘There are two of them. I’m not sure if they saw us.’

‘These are mine,’ said Dalton, reaching for his gun.
‘I’ll show you how to shoot.’

‘Put it away,’ said
Krige. He took the Beretta from his jacket. ‘Use this. It can fire in bursts of three. Now I’ll see how good you are.’

Dalton glowed.
He had what he wanted. He took the weapon. ‘You’ll not be disappointed.’

Krige
’s sighting materialized into two of Shozi’s guards, each carrying a
panga
in one hand and a stick clasped in the middle by the other. They were advancing warily, apart. The crack of the rifle bullet was still an unpleasant memory and they had no wish to die without at least a chance to fight.

Dalton poked the pistol carefully through the leaves, aware
of how easily bullets could be deflected by the merest twig. He aligned the sights and waited patiently as the men came to him, his palate as dry as scorched earth and the skin on his cheeks and round his jaw like dried hide. Krige watched him, wondering what drove people on in their hatred, their souls scarred by the insatiable longing to destroy. He saw the guards get nearer, half-hoping they would change their minds and leave. But they did not and at twenty-five metres Dalton fired.

Disgusted by his feelings of fascination
Krige saw one guard and then the other rocked like Japanese Daruma dolls, dancing soundlessly under the shock and then falling as if lowered on a winch. In seconds they were warm corpses in the lush green, their lives dissipating on a red tide.

The whites kept low, checking into the trees for friends of the dead men.
‘The others must have gone towards Malakazi,’ said Dalton. He gave Krige the pistol. ‘It is a pity. I can handle more of them.’

Krige
went to the guards. He had seldom seen bullets kill so cleanly. Dalton was an exceptional shot. He examined the bodies then retraced his steps. ‘It’s too light now for Shozi. We need a couple of hours until it gets dark.’ He stuffed the Beretta into his belt. ‘My guess is we can catch him by surprise. He won’t expect another attack so soon.’

‘You’
re doing the job.’ Dalton brushed himself briskly. ‘My gut feel tells me he’ll be sitting up all night thinking of you, his men crawling all over the place like greenflies round a pile of shit.’

‘If I fail,’ retorted
Krige, ‘you’re next and it won’t only be Shozi. You’ll have to kill them all.’

‘
I imagine you’re pretty good with a gun and I have every confidence you’ll take it in your stride,’ said Dalton. ‘You should’ve brought an SMG. We’re not here for fun.’

‘Aren’t you?’
said Krige.              He went to the rifle bag. ‘Shozi will die tonight and I’ll be the one who kills him. You’re safe.’

Krige
and Dalton were in the trees until it was dark then they returned to the rocks. Lights were on downstairs in the house and in the quarters but there was no sign of anyone and no way of knowing if the guards had come back from their search. Krige touched the Beretta behind his belt, the cold steel kept from his skin by the shirt and he welcomed the strength it gave him. He did not have a specific plan except that he wanted to be finished with the Zulu and heading for Malakazi. In the poor light he could just make out Dalton three metres from him, wedged between the rocks. He looked at the house, noting the curtains across the French windows. He got up, placing the binoculars on top of the rifle bag. ‘I’m going in,’ he said. ‘No point in sitting here any longer. I’m leaving the rifle.’ He added drily. ‘If I don’t return you might eventually get a long shot at him.’

Krige
loped along the stream, changing course for the grass when he was clear of the rocks. He went in a circle until he was on the other side of the house then he moved in, stopping when he was near the front porch. From his angle the doors were giant mirrors and he was puzzled to see the gaping hole through which the guerilla had escaped. It was covered by a board, the surface starkly matt next to the shining glass.