Trackers (15 page)

I registered who he was, somewhere in the back of my mind.

Diederik Brand, local farmer. I walked around him, I wanted to
start with Steel Grey and I wanted to hurt them. The Big Guy was rising to his
feet.

Emma saw me and came to her senses. 'Lemmer, no,' she said.

Diederik put a broad, firm hand on my shoulder and spoke in a
soothing voice: 'You don't want to do this to yourself.' He turned to their
table. 'Gentlemen, tell me, what does one of those babies cost?' Steering me
towards the exit at the same time.

Emma saw his plan, and she took my other arm, cool hand on my
skin.

'Two hundred and twenty,' said Ratface in a voice squeaky
with tension, 'Without the extras.'

Diederik and Emma had me at the door. My eyes were on Steel
Grey, he saw something in them and looked away.

'Incredible,' said Diederik. 'Lovely machines,' and then we
were outside and he said quietly, 'that's not what you want.'

Emma tugged hard on my arm. 'I shouldn't have lost my
temper,' she said. 'I should have ignored them.'

'No,' I said and strained back towards the restaurant.

'Lemmer!' said Diederik Brand sharply. I looked at him, saw
two dimples and a reassuring smile.

I stopped.

'Listen,' he said. 'How would you like to save the last two
black rhino in Zimbabwe?' As if it were the most logical thing to ask, in the
circumstances.

I only knew two facts about Diederik Brand. He farmed, in a
big way, between the Sak River and the Nuweveld Mountains. When Loxton folk
mentioned his name they said 'Ay, that Diederik,' and then they would laugh and
shake their heads, as if he were some beloved but mischievous son.

I had seen him around, mostly just a hairy arm waving from a
bakkie window as he drove by. Now he was sitting in my living room, on the new
leather couch that was Emma's peace offering after rolling my trusty Isuzu on
the bend in the gravel road just before Jakhalsdans.

We had driven here with him, both he and Emma gently
convincing me that the Knights weren't worth the trouble. I was listening to

Brand, with a part of my mind still in the Red Pomegranate
meting out punishment.

Diederik was a large man, in his fifties, broad shouldered,
with the sun-beaten face of all Karoo farmers. Black and grey hair curled over
his ears and the collar of the neat khaki shirt. He sported a military
moustache and there were laugh lines around his mischievous eyes. His natural
charm was of the engaging, self-deprecating sort. He leaned forward, elbows on
knees, and told his fascinating tale skilfully and with great urgency. Emma
hung on his every word.

'For two years we've been trying to get hold of black rhino,
but it's not easy. It's practically impossible to get a permit - there is a
hell of a waiting list, you have to be approved, have a big enough farm, the
right habitat. You have to be prepared to get involved with the breeding
programmes. The National Parks get preference. Last year Zambia got the only
ten available, because since '98 they have been thought to be totally extinct
there. The black rhino is expensive, we're talking half a million rand per
head. So, one has to make a plan, because they were once native to this area,
long ago. Now, because I've been asking all over, everyone in the industry
knows I am looking for the animals. Three weeks ago a guy called me from
Zimbabwe, someone from Zim Nature Conservation, squeezed out long ago by
Mugabe's storm troopers, but still running private safaris in the Chete.
Anyway, he called and he said they had found a bull and a cow, by chance, on
the banks of the Sebungwe River, just south of Kariba. The animals were
frightened, wild, very aggressive, you couldn't get near them. He said if we
didn't save them, they would soon be shot for their horns anyway, but he didn't
have the money for sedation and transport. If I would put up the money for
expenses, they would smuggle the animals to the border, I would just have to
pick them up there. That's not as easy as it sounds. Sebungwe is 700 km by road
from the South African border and they would have to be careful with all the
roadblocks and things. It's quite a sacrifice on their part, but for all of us
it's about —'

He stopped suddenly, mid sentence, and glanced towards the
window. Outside we could hear the high drone of an aeroplane, a single engine,
growing louder. Diederik Brand nodded as though he had been expecting it.

Our sleepy little town. As busy as a termites' nest this
Saturday morning.

'Mr Brand, can I offer you some coffee?' Emma took advantage
of the pause. I sat there wondering what his story had to do with me.

'Diederik, call me Diederik. Emma, thanks, but no. Trouble
is, we haven't got time.' He picked up the black file that he had put down on
the wagon box coffee table when he came in, and flipped it open. He paged
through the pile of documents. 'Now, the first thing I did was talk to our
Minister's people. It's no good arriving at the border with the animals if they
can't come in. Environmental Affairs are very sympathetic, I think they feel
some guilt about Zim, if you understand what I mean, but it's a problem for
them because we won't get a certificate of origin, no export permit from Zim,
it's smuggling whichever way you look at it.'

He selected a document and placed it solemnly on the wagon
box. 'Now, there are a couple of things that made the breakthrough. The first
one is the gene pool. In South Africa it's tiny, our black rhino are almost all
descendants of the Kwazulu and Kruger herds. So in that respect the Zim animals
are priceless. I had to sign an agreement that gives Nature Conservation first
option on the calves. The second thing is that I am remote. Only a handful of
people will know that I am going to breed rhino, you among them, so please,
keep it between us because the horns are selling at around $20,000 a kilogram
here, that's more than $60,000 for one horn, almost half a million rand. The
third thing is, I have the space, and my fences are electrified. Here ...' and
he tapped his large finger on the document'... is my permit.'

He took another sheet of paper out of the file. 'Here is a
letter from the Director confirming that they are making an exception with the
import permit, since it is an "emergency",' and he drew quotation
marks with his thick index fingers.

'Diederik ...' I said.

'Lemmer, I know what you are going to ask. What has all this
to do with you? Let me tell you then. You know Lourens le Riche?'

'I know of him.'

'You know Nicola, the game farmer?'

'He is a friend.'

'Right now Lourens is in Musina with Nicola's game lorry.
Tonight he is loading the rhino just east of Vhembe on the Zim border, and then
he has to drive all the way here with a cargo that is worth a fortune, and I
don't just mean in money terms. That's over 1,500 kilometres. If something
goes wrong ...' Brand looked at me meaningfully. It took me a while to get it.

'You want me to travel with him?'

'Please, Lemmer, buddy.' Like we were old friends. 'I will pay
full price, just let me know your fee.'

I could read on Emma's face that she thought I should support
this worthy cause.

'Diederik, it's not that simple ...'

'Everything is official, Lemmer, you don't have to worry
about that.'

'That's not the issue. I'm on contract. I can't do freelance
work.'

'What do you mean?'

'I work for a company in Cape Town. Body Armour.'

'Yes, yes, your bodyguard job. You look after all those rich
and famous ...'

There are no secrets in the Bo-Karoo, only false impressions.
'They are mostly businessmen from overseas ...' I said.

'But you're off now?'

'Diederik, I have a contract with Body Armour. It says I
can't do freelance work. Everything has to go through them.'

'They must take a commission.'

'That's right.'

'Lemmer, man ... how will they know? You load tonight, the
day after tomorrow you'll be back.'

How could I explain - without offending him - that my loyalty
to Jeanette Louw, my boss, was not negotiable?

'I'm like you, Diederik, I prefer official sanction too.'

He looked at me thoughtfully.

'OK,' he said. 'Who is in charge there? What's his phone
number?'

'How will that help? Musina is a day's drive from here.'

'That plane ...' he pointed his thumb towards the airfield.
'It's Lotter. He's waiting for you.'

After a ten-minute conversation he passed the phone to me.
'She wants to talk to you.'

'Jeanette,' I said.

'Glad to hear you are recruiting clients yourself now ...'
She had the usual irony in her hoarse Gauloise voice, followed by the single barked
'Ha!' Which meant she was laughing.

I said nothing.

'I'll manage the admin, if you want the job.'

Did I want the job? This one was close to home. I had
questions, as yet unformed, everything was moving too fast, too soon after the
Knights. And then there was Lemmer's First Law: Don't get involved. And this
was all about getting involved. With a local farmer, with Something Big.

Jeanette interpreted my silence correctly 'Perhaps you know
more than I do. It's your decision.' Then she added: 'It's in a good cause,
Lemmer. He sounds like a
mensch.
And you know
how it is, with the recession ...'

I knew. Body Armour's turnover was down by fifty per cent,
thanks to the international meltdown. It was two months since I'd earned a
cent.

I looked at Emma's pleading eyes. Just like Jeanette, she was
a Diederik disciple already. I thought of the young Lourens le Riche,
hard-working student. What would the village say if I forsook him? I thought
about the payment on the new Ford bakkie. And my roof. Oom Ben Bruwer's soft
whistle as he climbed down out of the ceiling and told me the woodwork was
rotten. I would have to put on a whole new roof.

I sighed. Deeply.

'I'm
in,' I said.

To be able to recognise
signs, trackers must know what to look for and where to look for them. Someone
who is not familiar with spoor may not recognise it, even when looking straight
at the sign.

The Principles
of Tracking: Recognition of signs

Lotter looked like a middle-aged rock star. Balding, the hair
he still had all gathered into a ponytail, with round spectacles on a gypsy
face. 1 le shook my hand with a friendly smile, took my black sports bag and
walked over to the aircraft. It was incredibly small, a toy plane in white, red
and blue, with a Perspex bubble dome over the cabin, two seats, and a slim
joystick where you would have expected something more substantial. It looked
like the sort referred to in news bulletins as a microlight, usually followed
by the word 'crashed'.

Emma inspected it curiously, caught up in what she had just
referred to as my 'fun adventure'.

Diederik Brand came to stand beside me. 'You don't have to
worry, Lotter is an international champion.'

It wasn't how he flew that worried me, but what he flew. I
held my tongue.

'This is just in case,' Brand said, and passed me a package
wrapped in a grimy cloth.

I smelled gun oil, and started to unwrap it.

He put a hand over it. 'I would wait until you're in the air
...' and he cast a significant look at Emma. 'I don't want to upset her.'

'Is there something I should know?'

'You know how it is on our roads,' he said.

I hesitated. My Glock 37, with ten .45 GAP rounds in the magazine,
was in my sports bag. I didn't need anything else. But Diederik Brand had
already turned away and walked towards the deathtrap. He clapped his hands,
'Come on, you must get moving.'

I checked my watch. Five to twelve.

Two hours ago my life had been a breeze.

I stood at the wing, ready to board. Emma came to me with a
peculiar mix of emotions on her face - concern, pride, tenderness ...

I wanted to kiss her. She embraced me unexpectedly and
pressed her body against mine. She said something that was lost in the roar of
the plane's engine.

'What?' I shouted.

Emma moved so her mouth was against my ear.

'I love you, Lemmer.'

'Cape Town information, Romeo Victor Sierra, good morning,'
Lotter said over the radio as the Bokpoort Road slid by below us and my stomach
lodged in my throat.

'Romeo Victor Sierra, good morning, go ahead,' crackled a
voice over the ether.

'Cape Town, Romeo Victor Sierra has taken off from Loxton at
ten zero four Zulu, on flight plan reference zero two five, Romeo Victor
Sierra.'

'Romeo Victor Sierra, squawk four zero six six, no reported
traffic and call me crossing the FIR boundary.'