African Dawn (32 page)

Emmerson and the man both turned to look southwards as they heard the increasing volume of a police siren. Ahead of them, in the sky, the lunatic pilot of the microlight had climbed and was now turning back towards them.

The driver of the Toyota gave up on his futile attempt to get his vehicle working. He was probably in shock, Emmerson thought. The man got out and looked to his comrade. ‘What about Enock?’ he asked, gesturing to the slumped man. Enock groaned.

‘Forget him.’

They looked at Emmerson. ‘We must run,’ the driver said.

Emmerson shook his head. ‘I am a minister of the government. I cannot run, but I cannot order you to stay. I will have to stay and face the music.’

The man who had handed over the horn just shrugged and the driver said, ‘Let's go.’

‘Here,’ Emmerson said, stepping back to the open rear door of his car and reaching in. ‘Take the horn.’

The men looked at each other and the driver grabbed the hessian-wrapped trophy. As they turned, Emmerson reached behind him, drew out his pistol, and shot both of the poachers. One man died instantly, the bullet slamming into the back of his head and exploding out of his mouth; while the other, still clutching the rhino horn, writhed and screamed on his belly and futilely reached around with his other hand for the wound in his back. Emmerson took a step closer and fired into the man's head. Next, he walked over to where the third poacher was groggily trying to sit upright, one hand braced on the dashboard of the wrecked Toyota. Emmerson took aim and fired again, the round entering the man's forehead just above the bridge of his nose.

Emmerson looked up the road, towards Victoria Falls, and saw the microlight touch down on the road and roll towards the wrecked cars. Glancing back over his shoulder he could clearly see the police Land Rover. He looked down at the hessian-wrapped package that could have paid off his latest debts and bought him endless nights' pleasure with the girl who waited in his hotel suite. The warrior in him wanted to shoot the white man who was now striding towards him. The man was being followed by a woman with blonde hair. He stood with the pistol hanging from his right hand. Emmerson's eyes widened as he recognised the pilot.

‘Drop your weapon!’ the man called. He appeared to be unarmed himself.

‘Who are you to tell me what to do? I am a government minister.’

The man slowed, recognition dawning on his face. ‘You're Emmerson Ngwenya.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘You're behind it … all of it …’

‘I don't know what you're talking about, and what business do you have, causing an accident that killed my driver?’

The man and woman stopped about ten metres in front of him, no doubt wary of the pistol he held.

‘Oh my God,’ the woman said, looking at the bodies lying the grass beside the road. ‘You killed these men?’

Emmerson nodded. ‘They were poachers. My driver and I stopped for a rest at the abandoned carvers' market back there and these men tried to sell me something. I told them I was a member of the Zimbabwean government and they threatened to kill me. When the accident happened I was trying to get away, but you put an end to that. These men turned on me again and I acted in self-defence.’

‘Drop the gun!’ a senior police officer called from further down the road, where the Land Rover had stopped. The squad of armed policemen was dismounting and fanning out, rifles raised and ready for action.

Emmerson let the pistol slip from his fingers and clatter to the roadway.

‘You were here to collect the horn, weren't you?’ Tate said. ‘You killed these men so they couldn't tell the truth to the police. You're going to gaol.’

Emmerson looked to the police, raised his hands above his head, then turned back to the white couple. He noticed the woman's face for the first time. There was something about her that he recognised immediately, but it took him a moment to realise just what it was. Her hair, her eyes, her build were all eerily familiar.

He stared at the woman and saw that her mind was turning in the same direction. He smiled at her as the police came up behind him.

27

T
he police left a guard with the microlight, which was now low on fuel, and drove Tate and Natalie to Victoria Falls, where they were required to sit for three hours in an interview room and wait until it was their turn to give their statements. They didn't see Emmerson Ngwenya again all that day.

Tate tried to find a policeman who would give them a lift back to the aircraft with some spare fuel, but none of the constables seemed particularly keen to assist them or to drive back to relieve the man who had been left on guard duty.

‘I've got some friends who work at the Vic Falls Safari Lodge, and they can probably do us a good deal,’ Tate told Natalie as they stood outside the police camp deciding their next move. ‘Perhaps we should just stay here for the night and go back to the park tomorrow.’

‘I'm all for a bed at the moment,’ Natalie said. ‘And I never leave home without my plastic.’ She held up her gold card and he smiled at her.

The police were able to radio Robins Camp and let Nicholas know that Natalie and Tate were alive and well and that the missing rhino horn had been recovered – although no charges had been laid. Natalie felt better that her grandparents knew where she was, and she passed on a message via Nicholas that she and Tate would be back at the national park the next day, around lunchtime.

Tate had the police constable at the charge desk call them a cab and they were soon on their way out of town. The safari lodge was four kilometres from Victoria Falls, set in the bush near the border of the Zambezi National Park. A minibus pulled up ahead of them and they had to wait while a party of Chinese tourists was checked in first.

Natalie felt tired and dirty and did her best to be polite and friendly to Tate's friend, Neil, who was fortunately working as the duty manager. He looked a little surprised when they told him that neither of them had any luggage, but Tate promised to fill Neil in on the whole story later. Natalie walked in a daze behind the African porter who showed her to her room. Tate walked behind her.

‘This is the honeymoon suite!’ the porter said, pushing open double wooden doors.

‘Wow …’ Natalie's spirits perked up immediately, although she suddenly felt guilty. She turned to Tate. ‘I can't take this, really. They can't give me this room, Tate.’

‘I'm afraid they can,’ he said, folding his arms and leaning against the wall just inside the doors as Natalie explored, taking in the lounge, upstairs bedroom and the view out over the deck towards a waterhole where a huge bull elephant sucked up brown water from a waterhole with his trunk and poured it down his throat. ‘It's the only room Neil's got left.’

‘The only one?’

Tate nodded. ‘I'm afraid I have to stay here with you, assuming that's all right. If not, Neil says he can put me in the staff camp somewhere.’

Natalie opened a door. ‘No, it's fine, Tate. There are two rooms here.’

‘Fine.’

Natalie excused herself, saying she needed a shower and a sleep. She shut the door to the master bedroom and let herself into the ensuite bathroom. She peeled off her dirty clothes and half-skipped into the huge double-headed shower. She washed her hair and soaped herself and, unable to bear the thought of being filthy all over again, opened the door, reached out and got her knickers. She washed them with soap, hung them up, then got out and wrapped herself in a fluffy white bathrobe. She dried her hair with the built-in dryer and made a mental note to call room service after she woke to see if they could get her some toothpaste and a toothbrush.

When she had finished in the bathroom Natalie drew the curtains shut and sat on the bed. She started to shake.

In the cool, semi-dark of the room she wrapped her arms around herself, hugged herself tight and drew her knees up towards her chest into a foetal position. She lay like that for half an hour, fighting off the images that hovered at the edge of her consciousness.

The face was older, fleshier, aged by too much booze and too much good food in a country where so many had too little to eat. The eyes, though, were exactly the same. The pupils red-rimmed, the whites turning to yellow. She remembered, suddenly, the strong smell of native beer on his breath all those years ago. At the scene of the car crash she'd smelled stale Scotch in the air. The drink might have changed, but the man had not.

The sound of the mortars took her back to her grandparents' farm, back to 1979. The face was waiting for her there, in her nightmare.

*

Tate was too wired to sleep. He showered and changed back into his bush clothes and padded barefoot out to the deck. He found an old copy of
Getaway
magazine on a coffee table and was idly flicking through it as he sat and watched the old elephant ambling off from the waterhole back into the bush.

It had been a tragedy, losing another of the country's precious rhinos, yet they had recovered the horn and come close to busting the man who was quite possibly the mastermind behind the biggest poaching syndicate in the country. There had been rumours for some time that Emmerson Ngwenya was a kingpin in the rhino-horn trade, and now Tate knew those rumours were true.

Whether or not the police actually believed the politician's cock-and-bull story about stumbling on to the poaching gang didn't matter. Tate had all the evidence he needed. The question now was what to do with it. The government-run media would never publish the true version of the story, and while the independent newspapers would have a field day with it, the police would never open a docket on a minister who was so openly favoured by the President.

Tate wondered why a government minister, even one who enjoyed such extraordinary protection, would travel out in an official vehicle for a rendezvous with a bunch of poachers in person. Desperation perhaps? Was he in a hurry to collect the horn? Or was the wild-eyed, firebrand champion of the government's disastrous land reform program simply addicted to risk? Whatever the reason, it made Ngwenya a dangerous man.

Tate stretched out in the deckchair and contemplated a nap, but a piercing scream from inside the suite made him leap to his feet and rush back in. He hesitated by the closed door to Natalie's room, but the wail of terror continued. Tate opened the door and saw her sitting up in bed with the palms of her hands pushed hard up against her closed eyes. He reached out and grabbed her forearms, but she shook violently against him.

‘Natalie … Natalie! Wake up.’

‘No, no, no!’

‘It's a dream, Natalie … You're OK.’

She blinked and stared at him, her eyes adjusting to the gloom of the room, then jerked her body again to try to free herself. ‘Don't touch me!’

‘Natalie, it's me … Tate.’

‘Tate?’

He could see the recognition softening her contorted features, but tears began to drip down her cheeks. He sat down on the bed next to her and wrapped an arm around her. She smelled warm and clean in the cocoon of her thick fluffy robe, but her whole body shuddered under his embrace.

‘Oh God …’ she cried, and buried her face in his shirt. ‘I feel like such a stupid child.’

Unsure what to do, he tentatively reached out a hand and stroked her hair. ‘It's all right, Nat … You're safe now.’

‘Christ, I hate being so weak,’ she said, her voice still muffled against him. ‘But it's him, Tate. I know it is.’

He was confused. Gently he pushed her away from him and looked into her reddened eyes. ‘Who, Nat? What are you talking about?’

‘Promise me you won't think I'm crazy?’

He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘Emmerson Ngwenya … I'm sure he's the man who kidnapped me from my grandparents' house.’

Tate sat back and looked into her face. He wanted to hold her again. There was something about the way it had felt. It was the closest he'd been to a woman in many years. It wasn't a sexual feeling, more a pleasant feeling of connection. He'd felt strong – stronger than he had in years – when she'd leaned against him and he'd let his dusty shirt soak up her tears. She'd made him feel needed. He reached out a hand, again not sure if he was doing the right thing, and placed it over hers, on the bedspread. She made no move to shift it, so he left it there. ‘But Braedan killed all the men who raided the farm, didn't he?’

She shook her head. ‘I've been researching it, as best as I can. The records are patchy and the three historical books that mention it all have discrepancies. One of the accounts says the men on the follow-up sweep reported finding a blood trail, from a wounded man, though this was glossed over in the other books.’

‘But at the awards ceremony, in all the newspaper reports at the time, they said Braedan shot the man who had hold of you,’ Tate said.

‘Oh, Tate …’

She started sobbing again and he leaned in closer to her again. Her body melted into his and he sat there once more with his arms around her, rocking her gently as she cried and cried. He had no idea what any of this meant, but her encounter with Ngwenya had clearly triggered something deep inside her. It was possible, he thought as he breathed in the sweet scent of her shampoo, that Ngwenya had been involved in the raid on the farm. He was from Matabeleland and had served as a ZIPRA guerilla before throwing his support behind Mugabe's Shona-led ZANU–PF when Nkomo's ZAPU disintegrated in the 1980s. He was the right age to have fought in the war. And now that he thought back on it, Tate, too, had noticed the predatory intensity of Ngwenya's gaze as he'd stared into Natalie's eyes. Tate squirmed, then relaxed, as he felt Natalie snake one of her arms around his body. She clung to him and he held her while she sobbed.

After a while she got up to go to the bathroom and he heard the shower running again. Tate wondered what to do and, unable to decide, went back out into the lounge and put the kettle on. When she emerged from her room she had dressed again, in her green shirt and skirt and sandals. Her hair was damp and, although her eyes were still red, she had stopped crying. ‘I'm sorry about all that.’

He waved a hand in the air. ‘No problem. I've made tea. Would you like some?’

‘Um … that's sweet, but I think I might need something a little stronger.’

Bugger it
, thought Tate, once more feeling out of his depth. He opened the minibar. ‘No, not stocked. Wait a minute, I'll just pop downstairs.’ And he disappeared quickly out of the room.

*

Natalie was left standing there, hands on hips, wondering what had got into the man. She felt embarrassed at the way she had broken down in front of him. But God, she thought, it was good to be able to let some of this out.

She was grateful that there had been another human being in the room when she'd needed one, and that Tate had dropped his usual automaton impersonation. He'd even called her ‘Nat’, which made her smile now. She looked down at the tea and took a tentative sip. It was too hot and he had used powdered coffee whitener. What she needed was a gin and tonic, but if there was nothing in the minibar, why hadn't he thought to simply call room service?

Natalie walked out onto the balcony and looked out across the lengthening shadows. The dull greens and browns of the Zimbabwean bush were slowly being softened to golden coppery tones as the sun entered the hazy zone of dust and smoke above the horizon. There was still an hour or so of light left and it seemed the rains that had washed out the game census last night had not made it as far as Victoria Falls. The countryside was achingly beautiful and Natalie wished with all her heart that this was her first visit to Africa, that she could simply appreciate the place for its natural wonders. But she couldn't. She was African. She was born of the blood-red dirt that baked below her and she was destined to carry the continent's sorrows in her for all her days.

The doors opened behind her and Tate stood there, grinning like a slightly confused puppy. ‘I've organised you a drink. But you've got to come downstairs.’

She sighed. She felt self-conscious now about her tears and clinginess, and all she really wanted to do was hole up in her room with a drink and watch TV. But she didn't have the heart to turn Tate down. ‘All right, maybe just for one.’

‘OK. Come on.’

Natalie followed him down the stairs back through reception. Outside, two open-topped Land Rovers were filling with the Chinese tourists who had arrived just before them, and an assorted group of Europeans – Germans, she thought, judging by the accents – tricked out in a menagerie of animal-print scarves and designer safari outfits. Natalie groaned inwardly. If he told her they were climbing aboard one of these vehicles she was going to turn on her heel and march straight to the nearest bar.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Tate said.

After the vehicles filled and drove off Tate told Natalie to wait just a little longer. She turned at the sound of the squealing brakes and saw a much older cut-down Land Rover creak around a corner and pull up into the driveway. An African man in oil-spattered overalls got out and slammed the slightly wonky door to close it. ‘I am leaving the engine running in case it stops,
sah
,’ he said.

‘This is Edson,’ Tate said, introducing the hotel mechanic, who wiped his hand on his grimy clothes before shaking Natalie's. ‘Neil said we could take this old Landy for a spin. Our sundowners are in the cooler box in the back.’

Natalie waved a hand in front of her face to ward off the diesel fumes, then nodded her thanks to Tate who had opened the passenger door for her. Once she was in he slammed it closed after two attempts. They waved goodbye to Edson and Tate headed out into the slanting gold of the afternoon sun.

Natalie closed her eyes for a second and relished the feel of the warmth on her face and the breeze stirred by the movement of the roofless vehicle. The windscreen was folded forward, flat on the bonnet, so she felt as though she was almost floating through the bush. She had no idea if Tate knew where he was going, but she said nothing as he turned down a rutted dirt road flanked by copper-coloured mopane trees.

‘I love this time of day,’ Tate said over the noise of grinding gears. ‘The photographers call it the golden hour, but I expect you know that.’