Far Horizon (27 page)

The drinks were loosening Flynn's tongue, not that Mike sensed it needed too much to get him talking. The way the bartender studiously returned to polishing his glasses made Mike think the man was grateful there was someone else in the bar for the old hunter to bore.

‘What do you mean, “no softie”?' Mike asked.

Flynn scratched the bristly salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin and stared out over the lake, which shimmered like liquid silver in the low afternoon light.

‘It was a dirty little war, that's for sure, and we were none of us angels.'

The barman had finished with the glasses and was checking the fridge in preparation for the evening crowd. He walked out through a doorway at the back of the bar, presumably to a storeroom. Flynn waited until he was gone before continuing.

‘Karl was only a youngster then, in his twenties. Not in my patrol, but word travelled, you know. I heard a story once, don't know if it's true, that he beheaded a captured gook – that's what we used to call the terrs, the terrorists, before they became known as freedom fighters. Apparently he did it in front of the man's family to make them give up the location of some arms and the whereabouts of the rest of the man's cell. Then, so the story goes, he put the man's head in his pack and took it back to the Special Branch police, who were keen to make positive identification of any terrorists we killed.'

Mike sipped his beer. A man who was capable of an atrocity such as that would have had no qualms about executing Isabella and the other witnesses at the mission clinic. ‘No softie at all,' he agreed.

‘None of that happened in my push, though. I'll tell you that now. Still, Hess got results and he made it to sergeant before the end. Went back to his own army, down in South West Africa after that, and spent some time with the
koevoets
, a special police anti-terrorist unit, in Angola. Quite a few hard bastards in that
little lot too, from what I heard. He's been up here a few times over the years, bringing hunting clients with him. Europeans, mostly.'

‘So are these the people you're taking across to Matusadona?' Mike asked.

‘Indeed they are,' Flynn said, then drained his whisky in one go. He chased it down with cold beer from a dew-encrusted glass. ‘Mother's milk,' he added appreciatively.

‘But surely they won't be hunting over there?' Mike said, gesturing across the water.

‘Good lord, no. National park over there. No, we're only going for a walk, or a few walks, every day until we find what we want. There's nothing to shoot over there, and he'd take a rifle into the park over my dead body. No, no. The rangers over there don't muck about. It's shoot to kill if they see you with a weapon in the parks up here.'

‘So I've heard.' Mike was genuinely puzzled about why Hess and Orlov would have cut short their safari in the legal hunting concessions between Victoria Falls and Kariba to go sightseeing in a national park. ‘So what's there that's so special?'

‘We're going in search of the rarest and one of the most unpredictable animals in the Zambezi valley,' Flynn said, lowering his voice theatrically.

‘What's that?'

‘Rhino, my boy. Black rhino. There's half-a-dozen young orphan animals under armed guard over there that the rangers are getting ready to release back into the wild. The word from the Parks staff is that one of the few remaining wild bulls has been sniffing
around the wee ones lately and that we'd have a very good chance of seeing him on foot.'

‘Where do they keep the orphans?' Mike asked, although he could now guess what Flynn was going to say.

‘Tashinga.'

‘Y
ou worry too much, Karl. I have no lion and one undersized buffalo trophy to take home. We should have stuck to the original schedule,' Orlov said as Hess parked the Land Cruiser at the end of the rutted dirt road that led down to the Cutty Sark Marina on the edge of Lake Kariba.

Hess had heard the complaint too many times in the last two days. Orlov was a man used to getting what he wanted, and a man not afraid of the law. That was OK in countries where half the police force was in your pocket, but Hess knew just how diligent the South Africans could be when it came to hunting down poachers. Indeed, many of the men he had served with on
koevoet
operations in South West Africa and Angola were now working for the police on anti-poaching patrols.

‘You want the rhino, don't you?' Hess said testily as he fetched his bags out of the back of the vehicle.

‘Of course, Karl. You know I do,' Orlov replied. The
argument had gone round and round in this manner a number of times.

‘As I have said before, we must assume the police are looking for us. The sooner we get the rhino, the sooner we can get to safety. You can bag a lion or a bigger buffalo any day of the week in South Africa.'

‘Very well, Karl,' Orlov said in a resigned tone.

Hess saw Gerald O'Flynn standing on a wooden jetty, hands on hips, supervising the last-minute loading of two long, low aluminium-hulled speedboats.

‘Karl, good to see you. My chaps will carry your bags aboard,' Flynn called.

Hess mentally reviewed the plan once again. It was a simple one, the best kind. Flynn would take them across to Tashinga in his boats and they would go through the motions of visiting the
boma
where the orphan rhino were kept. Orlov would take, or pretend to take, rolls of photos of the beasts. Once that was over, Flynn would guide them into the bush on foot in search of the bull rhino that had reportedly been visiting the small herd of orphans.

Diceros bicornis
, otherwise known as the black rhino, is normally a solitary animal, and adult males and females are generally only found together when the female comes into oestrus. Hess guessed that one of the orphans must be a female of at least six years old, the age when females reach sexual maturity. It would be she the lone male would be searching for.

They would be accompanied on the treks at all times by an armed park ranger, as was normal practice when walking in most of Zimbabwe's national parks. Once they sighted the animal, or at least
sighted fresh spoor, Hess would call off the sightseeing expedition. They would return to Kariba immediately and cross the border into Zambia as soon as possible. From Siavonga, on the Zambian side of Lake Kariba, they would return the very next night in their own boat, with their rifles, and pick up the spoor they had located during the day.

Hess believed that Orlov underestimated the amount of planning and preparation that had gone into making such a simple plan a reality. Hess had visited Flynn and the park on a reconnaissance trip and sent Klaus across the border to recruit some local help. Klaus had found three supposedly retired poachers in the
shebeens
around the Zambian border town. They, along with Klaus, would provide the muscle to carry the rhino's massive skull out of the bush, as well as additional firepower in case they ran into an anti-poaching patrol.

‘Good to see you again, Flynn,' Hess said warmly as he shook his hand and introduced Orlov. In truth, Hess had his reservations about Gerald O'Flynn. The man drank to excess, as was evidenced by his red nose and redder eyes, and had a tendency to talk too much when he was drunk. With the police possibly already on their trail he was worried about Flynn blabbing. However, Hess had limited his participation in the operation to strictly legal activities. They would play the innocent tourists for the duration of their stay with the guide.

Flynn was probably the best bushman available in Kariba. Hess remembered him from the war as not only a good officer, but an honourable and idealistic
one. In Hess's book, idealism and honour had no place in war. He doubted whether Flynn would have assisted them at all if he had any inkling of what they were really up to. Indeed, he would probably have immediately reported them to the police.

Hess had told Flynn to choose a boat based on the need for speed rather than comfort, and the old guide had done well. The roar of the twin outboards and the slapping of the aluminium hull made conversation difficult, if not impossible, as they bounced across the small swell out on the lake. Hess appreciated the lack of distractions and enjoyed the feel of the warm sun on his back. There were five of them in the boat – himself, Orlov, Flynn, Klaus and a young African man who would set up and maintain their campsite in the national park for as long as it was needed.

The waters of the vast inland sea seemed to stretch to eternity around them, the empty vista broken only occasionally by another vessel. Orlov pointed at what looked like a barge with a crane jutting out from the top. ‘Kapenta rig,' Flynn shouted above the noise of the motors. ‘Little fish. The Africans catch 'em by the tonne and dry them. Very tasty!'

Hess pulled on aviator sunglasses to ward off the glare from the lake's surface and cast an idle glance at an ungainly, angular houseboat chugging along on the port side. He smiled as he noticed Orlov unashamedly ogling a trio of women in skimpy bikinis sunbaking on the roof of the craft. They waved at the speeding boat and Orlov waved back.

‘Should we take a closer look, Mr Orlov?' Flynn
called out, looking back over his shoulder from his place at the helm and flashing the Russian a wide yellow-toothed grin.

‘No,' Hess said, shaking his head to make sure he was understood.

‘Karl is the dull boy. All work and no play,' Orlov called back cheerfully.

The journey took a little under an hour. As they neared land they passed an ever-increasing number of dead trees jutting out of the water, their trunks and branches stark and white. Fish eagles and cormorants perched on the branches, their droppings turning the dead branches whiter still. These were all that remained of the forests that once carpeted the hills flanking the floor of the Zambezi valley.

Flynn cut the engines when they were twenty metres or so from a long, narrow grey sandy beach. ‘I'd be obliged if you'd keep an eye out for sticks just below the surface,' he said to his passengers as the boat glided noiselessly into shore. They encountered no obstacles and the boat beached with a soft shush. ‘It's sandy here, so you shouldn't have any problem with bilharzia. The little snails that carry the bug usually only live in reeds and weed – but take a big jump for terra firma, just in case.'

Tashinga was an attractive camping ground located right on the water's edge. It was also the headquarters for Matusadona National Park. ‘The park office is just up the road a bit. I'll go and pay and fetch our guide. Matthew, set up camp and put the kettle on for the gentlemen, please,' Flynn said to his young African assistant.

‘Yes, boss,' the boy said.

‘Forget the tea, Flynn, we've got work to do,' Hess said.

Flynn nodded and set off up a dirt road. Matthew carried plastic crates full of camping gear and canvas tent bags to a nearby campsite, which consisted of two simple A-frame shelters set onto concrete slabs. The shelters would make handy storage areas and were also big enough to pitch a tent under, for those visitors who wanted to feel a little more secure.

‘The camping ground is unfenced here,' Hess said to Orlov. ‘I've seen elephant, buffalo and even lion once, wandering through on their way to drink at the lake.'

Flynn returned twenty minutes later with a Zimbabwean ranger in a dark green field uniform. The man, whom Flynn introduced as Samson, carried an AK-47. The Russian assault rifle was old but well maintained, and its once-black metal parts were burnished bright silver.

Samson led them out of the main camp along a dusty road, past a grass airstrip where a herd of impala grazed peacefully.

‘Here is the
boma
where we keep the rhinos,' he said, pointing up a short track to a cluster of rough wooden pens, ‘but they are not there now.'

‘Where are they?' Orlov asked. ‘I thought you kept them locked up all the time?'

‘No, they eat for most of the day and then we return them to the
boma
at night-time. Follow me.' He left the dirt road now and turned off into the bush, his eyes scanning the ground for fresh spoor
that would lead him to the animals. He picked up the trail after less than a minute and they set off into the thick scrub, pausing every now and then to disentangle themselves from thorn bushes or to negotiate dense thickets of bush.

They saw another armed ranger before they saw the rhinos. Samson waved and greeted the man in Shona. Hess studied the man keenly. He was more interested in the men guarding the rhinos than in the animals themselves.

The ranger scrutinised the party just as carefully, Hess noticing that he was alert and looking for signs of anything irregular. He was armed with an FN rifle, designed by Fabrique Nationale of Belgium. Hess knew the weapon well, as he had carried one during the bush war in Rhodesia. Twenty-round magazine, 7.62-millimetre ammunition. The rifle was painted with green and brown camouflage, and was probably ex-army stock. Though an old weapon, it was more than a match for the AK-47s Klaus and the poachers would be carrying, in terms of stopping power and accuracy, but not capable of pouring out large volumes of lead in a firefight. Unlike their guide, the man was dressed in a khaki dress uniform of short-sleeved shirt and pressed trousers with a yellow and green sable belt. This told Hess that the orphan rhinos did not venture far into the bush each day, or the man would have been wearing the more utilitarian green uniform.

They passed the sentry and suddenly found themselves in the midst of a herd of six snuffling and snorting young rhinos. There were two other men with the rhinos, both dressed in green overalls.

‘These men look after the rhinos when they are in the bush. They show them how to feed and what is good to eat,' Samson said.

‘She likes this,' one of the men in overalls said as he scratched a young rhino behind the ear. Orlov dutifully snapped off a few pictures and the rhino snorted in apparent pleasure.

‘How old are they?' Orlov asked.

‘They are mostly two and three years old,' the same man replied. ‘But that one, she is now six.'

Hess studied the larger rhino. He noticed that she was, indeed, a female and knew it must be her the bull was sniffing around for. He also noted that none of the animals had very large horns yet, although he knew that even the stumps that these ones carried would each be worth a small fortune. Too short to be carved into dagger handles for rich Yemeni men, they would nonetheless fetch a pretty price in Asia, where ground rhino horn was a sought-after treatment for fever.

They wandered among the feeding rhinos, watching them grasp thorn bushes and leaves with their dexterous hooked upper lips and munch contentedly away. Hess knew the Zambian poachers would dearly love to slaughter these animals as well as the big bull, but he would not allow it. Not for the love of an endangered species, but because one day there would be another Orlov, perhaps from America or Germany or Italy, who would be willing to pay to bag a unique trophy.

After half an hour, Flynn asked, ‘Got enough pictures, Mr Orlov?'

‘Indeed I have, Flynn. Now, can we look for the bull?'

Samson briefed them on safety for the walk. ‘Please stay behind me and Mr O'Flynn at all times. If we see the rhino, keep very still and quiet. Do not use the flash on your camera, please. If he is going to charge, you must climb the nearest tree immediately. As we walk, always keep looking for the tree that you will climb.'

Samson wandered over to the armed guard and spoke to him briefly before turning and addressing the party. ‘This man says he saw the bull yesterday, in the distance. We may still be able to pick up his trail.'

They set off in the general direction in which the male rhino had last been seen. The sun was at its peak now and they sweated profusely in the humid air. Hess guessed the temperature was close to forty degrees centigrade, if not higher.

After a little more than half an hour Samson signalled them with an open hand to stop, then motioned them forward to inspect the tree he was standing next to. ‘He has been here. See how the bark of the leadwood is rubbed away. He has been scratching himself. See his tracks in the dirt. We are not far from him now.'

They followed the three-toed tracks and the path of broken twigs and gnawed thorn bushes until the sun was nearing the tops of the tallest trees. But not once did they see their quarry.

Orlov sat down heavily on a fallen tree trunk and wiped his brow. He drank greedily from his canteen until it was empty, and tipped it upside down, letting the last drops dribble into his mouth.

‘Water's low. We're all bushed,' said Flynn. ‘Let's call it a day, Karl.' Reluctantly, Hess agreed, and Samson led them back to the camping ground.

‘Ah, but I think there is good news today,' Samson said when he met them on the road out of the camping ground at dawn the following morning. ‘I have been to the
boma
already and the night guard says he heard the bull in the evening. He was very close.'

In the lake behind them hippos honked and grunted, like fat men laughing hard at bad jokes. A gaggle of white-speckled guinea fowl crossed the road in front of them and cackled nervously when they spotted the humans.

Hess carefully framed his question. ‘Are you sure the man knows what he heard? Have you asked the other guards?'

‘Oh, no need, sir. There is only the one guard. He is an old man who knows the bush well. He would make no mistake, sir,' Samson said.

Hess nodded, pleased with the answer. He now knew that there would only be one sentry for them to worry about, but that the man was experienced and alert.