Poacher (21 page)

Linda was still a bit overwhelmed by the
day’s events but could manage a smile for Andy Waring. ‘Please to
meet you.’

‘Sam,’ Andy said, ‘I’ve got the fire going,
and the beer is cold. Join us for a braai.’

Sam looked at Linda, who was frowning ever so
slightly. ‘I really don’t think so, Andy, we are really pooped. But
we will definitely take you up on that cold beer.’

‘Good enough. Get the vehicles out of the
camp before the gates close, and we’ll meet you at the house.’

Their movements were once again relayed to
Joao, who cursed bitterly once more. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘pick me
up. We will ambush them when they get home. That’s closer to the
border.’

It was a just after dark when Sam and Linda
eventually got into their vehicles. As they left, Andy gave Sam a
small Styrofoam box designed to keep six beers cold, which he
placed on the seat next to him. ‘A little something for the road,
Sam. Twenty-two kilos is about a sixpack far, so you should make
it.’ Andy leaned into the cab and whispered confidentially, ‘She’s
a bloody marvel, my friend. Get your backside in gear and don’t let
this one get away too.’

‘Get lost,’ Sam grinned.

The two vehicles pulled out, Sam taking the
lead. Once they were on the Nwanetzi road, Sam waved her past.

They were about halfway home, when he flashed
his bright lights. They switched off their engines, and enjoyed the
absolute silence, leaning against the Porsche, their elbows just
touching. ‘Beer?’

‘No more for me, thanks.’

He walked back to the truck and fetched
himself one. She was standing with her back against the low car,
and he pressed his body against her, arms loosely around her neck.
Her hands were on his hips, and she looked up at him. ‘Thank you
for taking me along today. I think this day has somehow given me a
lot to think about. Seeing so much death in one day makes a person
see life in a totally different perspective.’

‘I know,’ he said, brushing her forehead with
his lips. ‘Life and death, so close to each other, they are nearly
the same thing.’

She hugged him, and then put a hand on his
chest. ‘Please let’s go home, there is so much I have to tell you
this weekend.’ He was slightly baffled by the tears he saw in her
eyes, and he walked back to the Toyota in deep thought.

Lazarus was in the process of trying to fit
the second anti-tank mine into a hole in the road when Joao spotted
the approaching headlights.

Sam’s thoughts were still with Linda as he
absently twisted the steering wheel to miss a hole on the approach
to his gate. Strange-looking hole. About twenty centimetres deep
and thirty across. Sheer sides, ground piled neatly to one side.
That was not the work of an animal.

Christ! He started screaming as he exploded
into action. He stood on the brake and flashed his lights, nearly
pressing the horn into the steering column.

In the same instant the left rear wheel of
the Porsche triggered a tiny mechanism of Russian origin, buried
under a few centimetres of loose soil. In front of Sam’s horrified
eyes a blinding light erupted from the ground beneath the Porsche.
The explosion threw the small white car twenty feet into the air,
trailing fiery debris all the way up. The blast threw the Toyota
back, and Sam dived for the passenger door instinctively, his
training taking over the functions of conscious thought. He slammed
his hand into the door handle and rolled to the ground on the far
side of the truck.

His night vision temporarily destroyed by the
flash, Joao did not see Sam leave the vehicle. The RPG7 rocket left
the tube with a roar, and punched through the door on the driver’s
side, exploding inside the cab. The whole front half of the Toyota
exploded. On the other side of the truck, the blast of hot air
picked Sam up like a leaf, and threw him fifteen yards through the
air into a thicket.

Debris were still raining down all over the
bush and the echoes were still reverberating off the nearby hills,
when shouts started drifting up from the direction of the
compound.

Even Joao was awed by the havoc he had
created. The wrecks were smouldering through a dense pall of dust
and smoke that hung over the entire area.

‘Come on!’ He started running in the
direction of the BMW, hidden a kilometre away in the bush.

Sam opened his eyes and stared at the light
above him in confusion for a few moments. He was flat on his back
on the carpet in the lounge, and Aaron was wiping his face with a
wet towel. ‘I have radioed Skukuza, nkosi. I am so sorry.’

Sam’s eyes went slightly out of focus as he
once more saw the Porsche somersaulting into the air, suspended on
a growing ball of fire. ‘No!’ he screamed hoarsely, sweeping Aaron
aside and running out towards the gate. ‘Nooooo!’

When the first people arrived from Satara
twenty minutes later they found him on his knees next to the still
smouldering wreck of the Porsche, weeping forlornly and cradling
something pathetically small in his arms.

Chapter Eleven

The BMW was found early in the morning, and a
team of recces went over the wire in a follow-up operation, just to
be thwarted by vehicle tracks on the other side. The matter was
then immediately taken over by the politicians, who had a field
day. Indignant speeches were made, warnings by the ANC were issued,
and every politician and his brother got as much mileage out of the
incident as possible. The few powerful enough to manage exposure on
TV stirred up a National Sense of Outrage. The general public
demanded strong action.

The Mozambican government was still doing the
ground work for their rigged solution to the problem, when they
were surprised by the scream of four South African Impala jets,
executing a low-level attack on two ANC safe houses on the
outskirts of Maputo. Both buildings were completely destroyed, and
within minutes the Impalas were heading back towards Hoedspruit air
force base, escorted at high altitude by three Cheetahs, acting as
a deterrent against the Mozambicans sending a squadron of their
ancient MIGs after the Impalas.

This once again evoked the standard political
furore. It was a farce, and everyone knew it, but everyone went
through the drill nevertheless. The South Africans claimed eleven
ANC terrorists dead, the Mozambicans claimed twenty civilians dead.
The United Nations was in an uproar, and many more indignant
speeches were made, and new resolutions were laid down.

Every ambitious public figure in the
neighbouring black states screamed for more sanctions, their
bellies comfortably filled with food imported from South Africa and
paid for with money skimmed from African Aid programmes.

None of this made any impression on Sam. His
superficial bruises and scratches were of no consequence. In the
days that followed, his grief was slowly undergoing a
metamorphosis, turning into blinding rage. There was no doubt in
his mind that Joao was responsible and that the attack had been
aimed at him, not at Linda. He had known where in Mozambique Joao
was, he would have crossed the border and killed him without the
slightest hesitation. He also knew that Joao was much too cunning
to be caught in a safe house by a team of recces or an air
strike.

The funeral in Johannesburg was attended by
hundreds of people, among them most of the directors of the Parks
Board. Sam had said his farewells to Linda on the night of the
incident, and had no desire to attend the public display of a
funeral, but there was no way he could refuse to attend.

He suffered the empty condolences of family
and friends next to the open grave, none of them having the
slightest inkling as to the depth of his grief, loneliness and
fury.

And then Estelle was there, looking at him
through red swollen eyes. ‘Oh God, I am so terribly, terribly
sorry.’ She touched his cheek briefly with her fingertips, biting
her lower lip between her teeth. As fresh tears sprang into her
eyes, she shook her head from side to side and fled.

‘You utter bastard,’ a voice said behind him.
He turned around to find Smitty standing there, hate written all
over his face.

‘I know,’ he said and walked away from
Smitty.

‘Don’t just walk away, you are responsible
for this, damn you!’ Some heads started turning in their direction,
but Sam kept on walking away. ‘I know,’ he whispered once more.

After the funeral he intended spending a few
days with his parents, but by the second evening he was feeling
claustrophobic. In the middle of dinner, he laid his knife and fork
down and pushed his chair back. ‘I have to go back.’

Startled, both his parents looked up. ‘Don’t
be stupid, what are you going to do down there all by yourself?
Stay for a couple of days and rest. Your animals will survive
without you.’

‘It’s not that, Mother, but I have to think,
and get my life together. And I can do that better when I’m
home.’

‘But this is your home,’ his mother
countered.

‘I know, Mother, but you know that’s not what
I meant.’ He smiled at them lamely. They wouldn’t understand, so it
was no use trying to explain to them that he just had to get away
from people again for a while.

His parents knew him well enough not to
pursue the argument, and they accepted his decision without further
ado. As he walked to the front door with his bags, he stopped next
to the phone in the foyer. On impulse, refusing to think ahead, he
picked it up and phoned Estelle. His parents looked at each other,
their faces deadpan.

She answered the phone herself.
‘Estelle?’

‘Hello, Sam.’

He could not read anything in her voice.
‘Listen, I’m leaving now. I was wondering if I could drop by and .
. . well, say goodbye.’

‘You are leaving for Nwanetzi at this time of
night?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I am on my way out
to the car now.’

A prolonged silence ensued. ‘Estelle?’

‘Well, I suppose I can make you some
coffee.’

She opened the front door before he could
ring the bell. The greetings were cool but cordial, and her parents
were not in evidence.

‘Take a seat, I’m busy with the coffee,’ and
she disappeared into the kitchen.

He experienced a vague sense of unease in the
familiar surroundings as they sat sipping their coffee, neither
knowing what to say to the other. She eventually broke the silence.
‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Same as I have been doing for the past
months. Try to get you back. After I get Joao.

She nearly dropped her cup. ‘You think it was
him?’

‘I know it. And he will come after me again.
I can’t get to him, so I will have to wait for him to come to me.
Will you answer my letters in the meantime?’

‘You are going to get yourself killed. Can’t
you get the army or the police to catch him when he crosses the
border again?’

‘No. And you haven’t answered my
question.’

She smiled. ‘You are insane. And you are
impulsive.’

‘I am not impulsive! I have never stopped
loving you!’

‘Don’t raise your voice. I think you must go
now, you are confusing me, and I refuse to allow anyone to hurt me
again. Ever.’

Her walking to the front door forced him to
get up and follow. ‘Estelle, please listen.’

In the door she turned around and laid a
finger on his lips. ‘Don’t. Just go, please.’ She swept past him
suddenly and disappeared up the stairs. He stood in the doorway for
a long time before leaving, closing the door softly behind him.

A well dressed lawyer boarded the 7.30 a.m.
Comair flight from Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg, bound for
Skukuza. In his hand he carried a thin ostrich leather attaché
case, which he preferred holding on his lap, rather than placing it
in the shelf for hand baggage. On arrival he purchased a tourist
map of the game reserve in the curio shop, and rented a Volkswagen
Golf from Avis.

Occasionally consulting the map, he headed
for Nwanetzi, execrating the rental people for not being able to
supply a Mercedes.

He was hot and bothered by the time he
arrived, and the scene at Sam’s gate did nothing to improve his
mood. Sam was out on a patrol somewhere, and the stubborn old
fossil that shuffled up to the gate refused to let him wait inside.
The old bugger proved to be immune to both threats and bribery, so
he was confined to the discomfort of the small car without
air-conditioning.

He went back to Satara for lunch and,
relishing that he was not going to get back to an airport in time,
booked a hut for the evening.

When he stopped in front of the gate again
later in the afternoon, it was Sam who opened it himself. So this
was the man, the lawyer thought. He had been curious about this man
who had swept Linda’s feet from under her without apparent effort.
They had grown up in Upper Houghton together, and over the years he
had watched an endless succession of very eligible young suitors
try their utmost, to no avail. He had been convinced that she was
immune to emotional involvement, until she had come to see him that
day.

He introduced himself as David Finklestein,
while trying to ignore the big dog growling at his buttocks. ‘Mr
Jenkins, Linda was a very old and dear friend of mine. She came to
see me about a month ago in my capacity as a lawyer. You were the
subject of our discussions. Shall we go inside?’ The dog now
practically had its nose up his backside, and the growling had
taken on a note he did not much care for.

What the hell, Sam thought, inviting the man
in. ‘Don’t mind the dog, he won’t bite. Just don’t make any sudden
moves.’

Sudden moves were the farthest thing from
Finklestein’s mind as he gingerly preceded Sam into the house.