Red Earth (3 page)

‘Why does a businessman need a bodyguard?' Mike asked. ‘It's not like he's a government minister who'd warrant protection.'

Again Solly looked around, checking no one had moved into earshot. ‘I've heard talk about him. Before he got into politics, back in the days of the struggle, he moved guns and explosives for the ANC, but people said he also supplied criminal gangs. They say he was involved in car hijackings as well, not stealing the vehicles himself, but running garages where stolen vehicles were stripped and resprayed. But this was years ago.'

Mike had read Dlamini's tough talk in the newspapers, and had met him once at a conference on rhino poaching, but he hadn't had time or the opportunity to form his own opinion of the man. ‘Let's take a look around.'

They walked out from behind the shebeen onto the dusty road that ran the length of the market.

Most of the people selling goods greeted them both, but every few stalls someone would retreat further into the shadows at the rear of their tin hut, avoiding eye contact with Mike, perhaps thinking he was police or national parks – or they recognised old Solly. As they passed one stall Mike glimpsed a giraffe skull with dried skin still stretched across the bone, and a set of hippo tusks beside it. The seller tossed a blanket over his wares, but Mike didn't care about him right now.

Solly put a hand on Mike's forearm and pointed down the street. Mike saw the black late model BMW sedan with the tinted windows, a heavy-set man in a leather bomber jacket and sunglasses leaning against the bonnet.

‘That man is the driver,' Solly said.

The rear door on their side opened and a man got out.

‘That's not Dlamini,' Mike said.

‘The bodyguard,' said Solly. ‘Dlamini is inside in the back seat.'

The driver pulled the keys from his pocket and pressed the boot release on the remote. The boot popped open and the bodyguard, dressed in jeans and a grey hoodie, took out a hessian bag before closing it again.

Mike and Solly moved between two stalls, where they were out of plain sight but could still track the man with the bag. He crossed the road and came their way, to a small shack about a hundred metres up the street.

‘Let us go behind the stores,' Solly said.

Solly led them to the rear and they moved cautiously but quickly along the line of stalls. Away from the street chickens foraged in garbage, women cooked pots of
pap
over small fires, and young men brought more stock for the various sellers.

‘It is this one,' Solly said, then put his finger to his lips. He and Mike moved quietly to the rear of the stall.

Mike let Solly translate, though his Zulu was almost as good as the old ranger's.

‘The man with the bag is selling something,' Solly said. ‘The other man is asking what it is.'

‘Inqe,' Mike whispered, before Solly could translate the next sentence. ‘Vulture heads.'

Mike took a deep breath to try and still himself. He wanted to kick the ramshackle back door of the hut in and grab the man with the bag and throw him to the ground. He would probably be armed, but Mike had a gun as well.

Solly put his hand on Mike's arm again. ‘We must wait.'

Mike exhaled. ‘You're right. Listen.' Mike put his finger to his lips to tell Solly he could understand what the men said and didn't need any further translation.

The bodyguard was saying the vulture heads were fresh, not yet even dried. The stallholder asked how many he had. ‘
Ishumi nanye
.'

Eleven
. Mike remembered the headless birds he had found at the site just outside of Hluhluwe–iMfolozi, where the cow had been poisoned – the exact same number. If it hadn't been for the helicopter tracker scaring away many birds with the helicopter, there would have been more. It was no coincidence; these had to be the heads of the birds he had burned.

The men argued over the price, with the stallholder eventually offering an amount acceptable to the seller. It was a tidy sum, but Mike thought about Dlamini, in his big black sedan waiting across the road. Vulture heads were worth good money, but good enough for a high-profile man such as Dlamini to risk hanging around in public while his minion did the trade?

Inside the shack the stallholder told the bodyguard that he needed to go fetch the cash from elsewhere; it made sense the man would not keep a stockpile of money in his stall or on himself, in case of theft. Solly and Mike backed up between the shop and its neighbour, as they heard the rear door creak open.

Mike reached behind his back and drew his pistol. As the stallholder came into view he took three steps forward, wrapped his hand around the man's mouth from behind and rammed his pistol into the man's temple.

The stallholder was wide-eyed, but didn't struggle.

Solly unthreaded the belt from his trousers and, with Mike keeping the gun on the man and his finger on his own lips to warn him to continue to be quiet, Solly trussed the stallholder's hands behind his back. Mike took a cleaning rag that was hanging on a wire fence between the huts to dry and stuffed it in the man's mouth. They lowered him to the ground, on his knees. Solly produced a knife from inside his threadbare suit jacket and held it to the man's neck. Mike returned to the rear of the shack.

He cocked his head, moving along the wall of the shack to the back door. There was movement inside. Mike paused, felt the tension and adrenaline firing up his nerve endings. The man Solly was holding a knife to had been about to commit a crime, but he had not handed over any money. Mike wondered if they had gone too far too soon, but the thought of those eleven headless vultures, and the other birds he'd seen slaughtered and nests destroyed enraged him. This, he was sure, went beyond the killing of birds for traditional medicine. This deal was a curtain raiser.

Mike glanced back at the bound man. He looked terrified. He would not be a dealer in rhino horn; his market was local people who wanted a talisman or a potion to improve their lot in life, not Vietnamese businessmen half a world away who wanted to avoid hangovers or impress their commercial contacts.

The back door of the shack creaked as it swung open.

Mike moved to where Dlamini's bodyguard was exiting, probably looking to see where the stallholder was, and noticed him reaching under his hoodie. From a shoulder holster under his left arm, the man drew a black pistol. He had his back to Mike, who moved forward, raised his arm and smashed the butt of his own gun down on the back of the man's head. The bodyguard crumpled to the ground. Mike straddled the man and reached down, snatching the pistol from his hand and putting it in his pocket.

The man moaned and writhed on the ground at the rear of the stall, not out cold, but stunned. Mike bent down again and snatched up the hessian bag the bodyguard had dropped beside him. Inside he saw the pinkish-grey heads, the glassy eyes, the hooked beaks. Mike gave the man a kick.

‘Who are you?' the man croaked.

‘Shut up.' Mike pointed his gun at him. ‘What's your boss doing here?'

‘Who?'

Mike kicked the henchman again. ‘Dlamini. Don't tell me he's here just to oversee the sale of some vulture heads.'

The man spat. ‘I don't know what you're talking about, and if you're not police then get off me.'

‘You'll wish I was the police once I finish with you.'

‘Hey,' Solly called, ‘let's just wait for the police.'

Solly was right, but Mike was angry. The bag of vulture heads had incensed him. ‘There's more to this than just the heads.'

‘I agree,' Solly said, ‘but we are not the law.'

Mike ignored the older man's words of caution and addressed the henchman. ‘If you're delivering the vulture heads for Bandile Dlamini then you're just a courier, not a serious criminal. Tell me where you got them from and I'll put in a good word for you when the police arrive.'

The man spat blood. ‘I'll tell the police what you did to me and I'll charge you with assault, white man. Go fuck yourself.'

It wasn't in Mike to torture the man any further, beyond the kicking he'd given him, but he needed him to talk. He picked him up by the hood of his top and pushed him around the corner of the stall to where the stallholder was sitting, bound and gagged. ‘OK, how about I let you go free. I'll take the heads, and this guy,' he gestured to the stallholder with his pistol, ‘can tell the cops how he was never going to buy any vulture heads and instead cooperated fully with the police and national parks officers. You get to go back to Dlamini and tell him you lost the heads and didn't get the cash. How about that?'

The man's eyes darted from the stallholder back to Mike, and then to Solly. Seeing he'd get no sympathy from the old ranger he looked at Mike again. ‘What do you want?'

‘I asked you already,' Mike said. ‘Who's your boss?'

‘Those vulture heads weren't mine. I was just making a delivery.'

‘A delivery for who?' Mike replied.

‘Fuck you. I want a lawyer.'

Mike leaned over the man and again pressed the pistol to his head. ‘You think I won't shoot, right?'

The man glared back at him. ‘I know you won't, and I'm going to see that you're charged.'

Mike looked to Solly. ‘Take the stallholder away, out of sight. You don't need to see this.'

Solly hesitated. ‘Mr Mike …'

‘Go. No one will miss this piece of shit, certainly not his boss, since he lost both the goods and the money. Leave me to finish this. He is no use to us any longer and it's time I sent him on his way.' Mike took his captive's pistol from his pocket and passed it to Solly.

Solly took the firearm, lifted the stallholder up by his bound wrists and pushed him towards the street.

‘Please,' the man at Mike's feet said. Mike had never had any intention of executing him, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the fear in his face.

Solly, who seemed unable to tell if Mike was bluffing or not, gave him a worried look. ‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Keep that guy under wraps somewhere. Call the police. They're busy with a load of other
kak
, but they'll get here eventually. Don't let Dlamini see you've got our shopkeeper here, or he might drive off. We want him as well.'

‘You've got this all wrong,' the captive said.

The man cast his eyes towards Solly, but the ex-ranger had turned his back on them, probably with a measure of disgust for both of them.

‘Solly can't help you, only I can.' Mike raised the pistol so it was pointed between the man's eyes. ‘And right now, we could be the only two people left in the world. Say a prayer.'

The man licked his lips, quick, like a snake. ‘Wait. There's more at stake here than the heads.'

Mike looked over the barrel of the gun. ‘Like what?'

‘Bigger stuff than vulture heads.'

‘Tell me.'

‘Bandile Dlamini's not involved.'

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Whatever. Tell me what you know.' The man hesitated, as though wondering if he should continue. Mike pressed the pistol into the gap between his eyebrows. ‘Tell me.'

‘All right. Chill. Lose the psycho act.'

‘You've got one minute to give me something useful or I'll kill you.'

The man sighed. ‘Yeah, well, you would have done that by now if you were going to.'

Mike clenched his jaw then forced himself to breathe. ‘I'm handing you over to the cops whatever happens, and if you don't give me something I can use then you'll be the man who was responsible for Bandile going to prison as well.'

‘You have to let us get away.'

‘I what?'

The man nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes, I mean it. I didn't want to be part of this deal.'

‘What deal?' Mike was losing his patience.

‘There is a man coming here.'

‘What man?'

‘An
umlungu
.'

‘So what?' Mike said. ‘A white man. What does he want?'

‘He wants to sell three rhino horns.'

Mike whistled through his teeth. ‘Bandile's trading rhino horn?'

‘I did not say that,' the man said. ‘Bandile Dlamini is an honest man. He fights for the rhino. He heard about this deal and he is setting up an operation to capture this criminal.'

Mike scoffed. ‘Right. OK, I'll play along.'

‘It is no game.'

‘Tell me what you know.'

‘A man is bringing the rhino horns and Bandile will offer to pay him for it, then, when inspecting the horns, some police, from Durban, will arrest the man.'

‘Where are these police now?'

The man shrugged.

The plan sounded too far-fetched. If Bandile Dlamini really was part of a sting operation then the police would have already been there, in position, undercover. Also, they would not have countenanced this man doing a deal with vulture heads on the side, nor Mike getting the jump on him. The man was doing his best to extricate his influential boss from an ambush. He probably figured that the loss of the rhino horn would be outweighed by none of them going to prison.

‘Who's the white man Dlamini's meeting?' Mike asked. ‘What's his name?'

Solly had darted between the neighbouring shacks until he could see up the road again to where Bandile Dlamini's car was still parked. Mike looked away from his captive and saw a car flash past, driving fast up the street.

‘Did you get the make of that car?' Mike asked Solly.

‘An Audi Q5. It's pulling up near Dlamini's BMW. A white man has just got out of the car and now the Audi is leaving.'

‘Shit,' said Mike.

Chapter 4

Nia Carras had landed her helicopter at the quiet airstrip at Mtubatuba. After tracking the stolen vehicle earlier in the day and chasing the vultures off the carcass she had stopped to use the bathroom and get a Coke from the vending machine.

She was heading back to Virginia Airport now, looking forward to a surf and a cool drink, when her phone rang. It was connected to the helicopter's on-board communications system via bluetooth, and John Buttenshaw's name showed.

‘John, howzit? Everything OK?'

‘Fine, well, not fine. The guy who hit my
bakkie
wasn't insured. I've been chilling in the office all morning. Nia, we've got another call-out. There's just been a hijacking on the N2 near Stanger and get this – there's a baby on board.'

Nia swore. ‘No way. OK, give me the details.'

John read out the information the control room had taken from the vehicle's owner, a woman who had called the Motor Track emergency line. Her vehicle was a white Toyota Fortuner, a very common vehicle and a popular target for thieves. Its engine and gearbox were a perfect match for a minibus taxi and unscrupulous taxi operators sometimes upgraded their vehicles with stolen parts. ‘It's got a sunroof, Nia, and a half-length roof rack. Last seen heading north.'

‘That's good, John, thanks.' The extra details about the sunroof and rack were a bonus, as they'd help her differentiate the stolen vehicle from the other Toyotas she was bound to fly over.

‘OK, I'm on it. Where's Banger?' Nia brought the R44 around and pointed her nose down to pick up airspeed. Even while turning she was switching on the tracking device again. Any thoughts of a relaxing afternoon surf fled Nia's mind.

‘I've called him and sent him a WhatsApp. Just waiting to hear back from him.'

‘OK. We found that car we went looking for this morning – abandoned and out of fuel. Banger and Sipho had fuel with them and Banger was going to drive it back to the owner. He should have been done by now.' Banger and Sipho were good operators, but Nia knew that once a job was done they sometimes took their time heading back to Durban. They both had huge appetites so she wouldn't be surprised if they'd found a Steers or a Wimpy somewhere for lunch. It would be irresponsible for them to stop somewhere with no phone signal, but Banger's stomach, like another part of his body, sometimes overruled his brain.

If John were with her he would be holding the antenna of his tracker, which looked like a small version of an old-fashioned television antenna, and swinging it left to right to try and pick up the radio signal from the tracking device hidden in the Toyota. Nia couldn't do that while flying so, instead, she positioned the antenna on the co-pilot's seat and turned the helicopter to the left and right, flying in an ‘S' formation, to simulate John swinging the tracking device.

Attached to the antenna was the tracker itself, and this was fed into her headphones. Next to the antenna was her iPad, onto which she had loaded a satellite navigation app. At first she heard only static, but as she headed east from Hluhluwe towards the N2, Nia started to pick up a scratchy
tich, tich, tich
signal in her headphones.

She made a turn north, to the left, and the noise died out, then brought the Robinson around a hundred and eighty degrees. The signal returned and intensified to a clearer, stronger, repetitive
tick
.

‘Yes!'

Nia settled above the N2 at 1000 feet and reduced her speed. She checked her fuel. Hanging around the vultures had burned her supply, but the increasing volume and frequency of the signal in her headphones told her the Fortuner was coming towards her, so she could ease off and save fuel. Now all she needed was for Banger to get here, and he shouldn't be far away.

She keyed her radio. ‘Ground crew, ground crew, ground crew, this is chopper.'

There was no answer. Normally once a call was received Nia would only stay in contact with Banger, or whoever was on duty as the ground crew. They, in turn, would receive updates from the Motor Track control room, thus freeing up her and John to fly and track. But today, clearly, was not a normal day. She tapped the screen of her iPad to mark her current position. The GPS coordinates flashed up.

Nia picked up her cell phone and selected John's number from the top of the recent calls list.

‘Hi, Nia.'

She dispensed with the civilities. ‘Any word from Banger? I can't raise him on the radio.'

‘He must be in a dead spot. I can't reach him either.'

‘Shit,' Nia said. ‘I'm picking up a strong signal on the Fortuner. They're heading north on the N2.' Nia read out the GPS coordinates to John. ‘Give that to Banger when you get hold of him. Hey … wait a minute, I think I see it.'

Below her Nia saw a white Fortuner, with half roof rack and sunroof, barrelling down the motorway, passing a line of traffic and just swinging back into the left-hand lane as a truck came towards it, narrowly avoiding a head-on.

‘Got him, John. I'm in pursuit. Get Banger, now!'

‘OK, I'm trying.'

Nia ended the call and turned the chopper around so she was headed north, behind and above the speeding stolen vehicle. Through the Perspex she could see flashing blue lights ahead, but they were coming towards her. ‘Where are you guys going in one hell of a hurry?' she asked herself.

Nia pressed the speed dial and called John again. ‘Hey,' she said when he answered, ‘I've just seen three cop cars pass underneath me heading south towards Durbs. What's happening? Are the cops looking for this guy because there's a baby on board?'

Nia didn't carry a weapon of any kind in the air and she was not permitted to try and stop a fleeing car thief by landing. Safety was of paramount concern in her line of work. Her job was to find a stolen vehicle, keep it in sight, and report its position to her ground crew – wherever they were.

She kept her eyes on the road below, not losing track of the Fortuner. It was moving like a cheetah chasing lunch. Nia knew the tracking signal still ticking strongly in her ears could drop out at any time; car hijackers usually worked in pairs and while one was driving the other would be frantically ripping off door panels, pulling up carpet and ransacking the dashboard in search of the vehicle's tracking device. Once they found it, they'd throw it out the window or, if they could stop somewhere, such as a service station, they might try and plant it on another vehicle.

‘Control room's called the cops,' John said, ‘but I've got no word back on whether they're in pursuit or not. In fact, I doubt it
.
'

‘Why?' It wasn't unusual for Nia, Banger and Sipho to be first on the scene, or for them to find a stolen car and for the ground crew to make an arrest; in fact, it was the norm, as the tracking companies were better set up to respond faster than the police. Nia did think, however, that a case involving a baby would have stirred the police into action.

‘There's been an explosion in Durban, Nia.' The words tumbled out of his mouth. ‘The cops are going crazy, the police frequency's hectic. It sounds like the American ambassador to South Africa's been blown up
.
' John paused for a breath.

‘A bomb? In Durban?' For all of South Africa's problems it wasn't a terrorist target. She was gaining on the Fortuner so she backed off a little, making sure the driver wouldn't be able to spot her in his mirrors or by looking straight up through the sunroof. Another police car whizzed under her skids, siren flashing as it raced towards the provincial capital. Nia could imagine the police radios were choked, stressed dispatchers taking calls from units all over the city and beyond. The car thief must have panicked when he'd seen the first police car pass him, but now he'd be high-fiving himself or his partner.

‘Yip. They're saying the ambassador, Anita someone, was visiting an AIDS hospice and was then on her way to the harbour to check a visiting US warship. What are we going to do about the missing kid, though?'

‘I'm trying to think, John.' She hoped the baby was all right. She couldn't imagine what state the mother was in. Nia was thirty-one and had never been married. After university she had travelled much of the world, partly as a backpacker and in later years as an itinerant pilot. She liked the idea of having a child, but hadn't yet met the man she was sure she wanted to start a family with. Banger was a fun guy, but she had a hard time picturing him as a dad.

One thing Nia really couldn't imagine was having a baby and then losing it, especially to a random act of violent crime.

From her relative airspeed Nia reckoned the
tsotsi
in the Fortuner was sitting on about 140 kilometres per hour. Nia switched frequencies to the police emergency channel. Predictably there was plenty of chatter following the bomb blast. She still couldn't quite get her head around what had happened. American embassies had been attacked in other parts of Africa, but how could something like this have happened in her South Africa?

‘John, maybe call another ground crew, Peter and Chris; even though they're not on duty maybe they're sober and can get up here. It'll take a while to get from Durban, but someone's got to take this situation seriously, no matter what's happened in the city.'

‘OK, Nia. I'm on it
.
'

‘Wait, John. Call the control room. Banger should be passing on information to them, but God knows where he is. Let control know I'm following the Fortuner and I won't let it out of my sight. The mother must be going crazy. Someone's got to give her some news.'

‘Right, will do
.
' John sounded almost relieved that she had given him something straightforward and achievable to do, even if it was just calling for help. She had loaded the poor guy up with instructions, but there was nothing more she could think of doing. The Toyota was still in sight and as long as she had fuel in her tanks that fucker down there would not get away from her.

This was crazy. Car hijackings had decreased in South Africa in recent years. Some of the older pilots she knew talked of daily call-outs to track stolen vehicles, sometimes multiple missions in a day. In the past, pilots had carried guns and transported armed-response security officers and helped with the arrest of armed thieves. There had been shootouts, but these days there were more rules and the job was more about tracking and observation than being an airborne cavalry unit.

The sky around her was clear, the day still perfect. There was little she could do for now other than keep trying for a response and keep the Fortuner in view. That was easy enough while the vehicle stayed on the motorway.

*

‘Shut up!' Joseph yelled again at the screaming child in the back seat. The Fortuner smelled of baby vomit and Joseph gagged.

He gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt. He continued to look in the rear view mirror, but there were no police following him. Another cop car flew past him, heading in the opposite direction, its siren blaring and blue lights flashing. When he'd seen the first three cars he'd thought they were going turn around and chase him for sure. Something big was happening somewhere, though, and so far the police were ignoring him.

But Joseph couldn't ignore his situation, or pretend that everything was OK. It wasn't. Shadrack was down, maybe dead, and he had a baby in the back of this truck. He looked back at it again; it was still crying. What to do? he wondered.

He needed to get off the motorway as quick as possible, before the police did pick him up, but he was a long way from home. No, wait, he told himself, he didn't want to go home. If Shadrack was alive and gave him up to the police then they would go to his mother's place. He thought hard. A sign to Mtubatuba flashed past. He had relatives between there and the Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park, near the mining town of Somkhele. They would look after him and he could hide the car there.

Part of him wanted to just stop and abandon the Fortuner and the baby and make a run for it, but more of him wanted to see this job through. As well as the baby the Toyota was loaded with high-end stuff. It looked like the woman had been moving house. He'd noticed a flat-screen TV, a couple of laptops, a wardrobe's worth of clothes, and the handbag on the seat next to him had contained two new iPhones, an iPad and a wad of cash. He had already pocketed the money – US dollars and rand – and the phones, but he could make a fortune fencing all this gear.

The baby. He thought about what he should do with it. It yelled and it screamed and there was not only the smell of sick to contend with. Joseph had little pity for the child. He didn't really care what happened to it, as long as he didn't have to do anything with it.

He shook his head. This was madness. He had done more than steal a car, he had kidnapped the child. The newspapers and television would be going crazy. He was probably already making the news. He turned on the car radio, and although it was not on the hour or half hour, a newsreader was speaking. His heart hammered in his chest.

‘… and to repeat that breaking news, the US Ambassador to South Africa, Anita Rosenfeld, and two of her bodyguards have been confirmed killed in a bomb blast that rocked downtown Durban this morning. The South African National Defence Force has been deployed on the streets and the city is in lockdown. As yet, no group has claimed responsibility.

‘Ambassador Rosenfeld was supposed to visit a hospice and attend a cocktail party on board a visiting US warship today, along with unspecified South African government representatives. It's no secret that the US is keen to engage South Africa in its war on terror in other parts of the continent, but experts are already saying today's attack, believed to have been carried out by a suicide bomber, means closer cooperation with America will make South Africa a target.'

It wasn't him. Joseph exhaled long and hard through his nostrils as he tried to calm himself. The police he had passed were going to Durban. A bomb would keep them busy, but eventually someone would come looking for the child, if not the Fortuner. He needed to get rid of both of them. He toyed with the idea of driving to the nearest police station – the cops would not expect that – and offloading the baby on the street.