Black Horn (17 page)

Maxie emerged into the firelight half an hour later. Creasy was hunched up, chewing
on biltong. The other man was propped up against the thin trunk of mopani tree,
five metres away. His chin was on his chest and he was sobbing. Creasy waved a
piece of biltong at the sobbing man.

"Karl Becker," he said. "Does the name ring a bell?"

Maxie squatted down, pulled his water bottle from his satchel, took several gulps and
said, "There's a man called Rolph Becker who has a crocodile farm at
Binga, not far from home. I believe he has a son."

"That's him," Creasy said. He pointed at the rifle propped up against another
mopani tree. "That's an old sniper rifle. An Enfield. It even has the original
sight and it's 7.62 calibre. This prick used it to murder Carole Manners and Cliff Coppen."

"He confessed?"

"Sure. After a little heat."

"Why did he do it?"

Creasy sighed and said in a cold voice, "Because his daddy Rolph Becker told him to."

"Why?"

Again
Creasy sighed. "He says he doesn't know. And I believe him. He likes
killing people but he doesn't like the heat."

Maxie
nodded thoughtfully.

"So,
I guess we go and talk to Daddy."

"We
do. How long?"

Maxie
glanced at his watch.

"If
we move now, we'll fetch Binga before dawn."

Creasy
pushed himself to his feet and tossed the remains of his biltong into the fire.
"Let's go."

Michael
pulled himself up off the floor of the passenger cab of the eight-ton Leyland
truck and settled himself back into the passenger seat.

They
had just passed through the small village of Binga, which sat on the south-east
shore of Lake Kariba. Being five o'clock in the morning, the streets had been
empty, but still Michael had ducked out of sight as a precaution.

He
glanced at the driver's wizened black face. He was so small that he had to sit
on two large cushions to see over the wheel, but Michael had been impressed
with his skill. They had driven for eleven hours, only stopping to urinate and
refill the tank from jerrycans in the back. They carried a cargo of heavy
fishing nets for the Kapenta contractors, together with boxes of canned meat
for a Save The Children orphanage further down the road.

"About another three K's, baas," the driver said. "You'll see the
lights on a ridge on the left."

"Lights?"
Michael asked. "At this time of night?"

"Oh,
yes. That Becker has security lights on all the time. I've passed this road
many times, usually at night. The big lights are always on. Maybe it's since
the war. This place was very dangerous. They used to come over the lake at
night from Zambia. Becker was one of the few white men who stayed in this area
during the bad times."

"Was
he attacked?" Michael asked.

"Yes,
baas, I think three times, but Becker had about fifteen Matabele. Very well
armed with machine-guns and hand-grenades and everything. Very tough men. They
fought off the freedom fighters, each time and killed men."

"What
happened to them after the war?"

"Well,
there was no vengeance for the freedom fighters, because Comrade President
Mugabe gave the orders for no vengeance after the war. But they did kill a lot
of Matabele who did not accept the election result and went into the bush. But
that's finished now."

"What's
your tribe?"

"I'm
Shona, baas. From the north. The Matabele are tough, but we Shona are smart so
we run the country."

Michael
digested that while slipping a Dexedrine tablet into his mouth. He washed it
down with a small sip from his water-bottle, then he asked, "What happened
to Becker's Matabele?"

"They
still work for him," the African answered. "But now they look after
his crocodile farm and they look for eggs along the rivers and the banks."

"Dangerous
work."

The
little driver nodded. "But they are dangerous people, baas. He glanced
behind him at the shelf of the cab. Michael's small black rucksack lay beside
the AK47 assault rifle and a Colt 1911. The driver turned his gaze back to the
road. "I heard the story of you back in Harare, baas. I think you're brave
for one so young. I'd be careful what you're doing with those people. That
Becker is not a good man and his son is worse. He treats his Matabele good but
the other workers he treats bad."

"I'll
be careful. Do you think all the Matabele will be there?"

The
driver shook his head. "No. It's the time of year to collect the eggs.
Maybe half of them will be camping by the rivers and lake."

"Close
by?"

"No,
baas. Far away. Maybe ten cigarettes' drive." He turned his head and
grinned. The little man was a chain-smoker, so it was fortunate that thanks to
Zimbabwe's huge tobacco production, cigarettes were very cheap. During the long
night's journey, whenever Michael had asked how long it would be until they
reached the next town or village, the driver had always answered, "Three
or five or eight cigarettes', equating the distance with the number that he
smoked before he arrived there. He had invariably been right and it had kept
Michael amused through the night. He calculated that ten cigarettes would come
to at least eighty kilometres, maybe even a hundred. So half of

Becker's
little army would not get back if any action started in the next few hours.

"Do
those Matabele still have those weapons?" he asked.

"Officially,
no. The machine-guns and grenades were confiscated after Independence for
sure."

"How
can you be sure?"

"Because
I collected them. My boss had the contract to pick up all the weapons from this
area." He shook his head at the memory. "I was very frightened,
jumping around on this rough road with a lorryload of guns, grenades,
ammunitions and mines in the back of the trunk. But Mr N'Kuku Lovu gave me a
big bonus."

With
slight relief in his voice, Michael said, "So those Matabele are not armed
now."

"For
sure they're armed. They will have hidden some of the weapons."

"Like
what?"

"Pistols
and maybe some AK47s. Also they'll have some licensed rifles because it's
dangerous work, collecting crocodile eggs. But they will not have machine-guns
or grenades." He pointed ahead and to his left. "There, you see the
lights, baas. We will pass about one K from the house --" He held up a
smoking cigarette -- "when I finish this one."

Michael was wearing black jeans, black boots, a black, long-sleeved shirt and a black
knitted skull-cap. He reached behind him, pulled down a heavy flak jacket and
struggled into it. From his shirt pocket, he pulled out two ten-dollar notes
and put them on the seat between himself and the driver. Then he got a
surprise. The driver glanced down at them, took one hand off the wheel, picked
them up and dropped them into Michael's lap.

"Not
needed, baas. Not for this job. My baas gave me a good bonus for this
trip."

Michael
picked up the notes and stuffed them back into his shirt pocket.

The driver's cigarette had burned down almost to his fingers. Michael looked up to
his left. The bright lights were approaching. He reached behind him for the
pistol, tucked it into the shoulder-holster and snapped down the restraining
strap. He shifted forward on the seat and slung the AK47 behind him with the
strap across his chest. Four spare magazines went into a pouch, hanging from
the left side of his belt.

"How
far is the African compound from the house?" he asked.

The
driver pointed. "There are two compounds. One for the Matabele and one for
the others. You can see the lights of both of them. The Matabele are the
nearest. That's about half a K from the house. The compound of the other Africans
is about one K away. If trouble starts, the other Africans will not get
involved. They will stay in their huts with their heads down, holding on to
their wives and children... they don't get paid enough to worry about Becker's
white skin." He changed down a gear, touched the brake lightly and mashed
his cigarette into the overfilled ashtray. "We're coming to the place now,
baas. There's big trees and bushes on the left coming up. I go very slow. Good
luck, baas."

Michael
slapped him on the shoulder. The truck slowed to a walking pace and he opened
the door and jumped down. Seconds later, he was in amongst the trees as the
truck accelerated away.

Karl
Becker was not a happy man. His two captors had no perception of generosity
when it came to dealing with someone who had tried to murder them. He had
hobbled throughout the night with his thumbs tied behind his back and his
ankles attached by a twenty-inch piece of twine. He had stumbled and fallen
several times. They had held a water-bottle to his lips twice during the long
march and only very briefly.

For the
first two hours, he had been building up a hatred, but then his mind turned to
how it was possible that he had been trapped. He considered himself the best
tracker in the country, black or white, but the two men strolling along behind
him had picked him up like netting a butterfly. How could he not have seen the
difference in the tracks when the ex-Selous Scout had started the stick
walking? How did he miss the spoor of the man called Creasy when he had moved
off the track and around behind him?

Slowly
the realisation crept into Karl Becker's head that the two silent figures
behind him were lethal. He recalled how the man Creasy had totally immobilised
him by tying his thumbs behind his back with a single piece of twine, and then
asked his first question, and how he himself had shown his arrogance by
spitting in the man's face and seconds later he had been sitting over the fire.
He had never heard such a cold voice, not even in his father when he was angry.
It had come at him as though sliding over ice cubes. After four hours he had
begun to fear for his life. He knew that if he and his father ended up in
court, his father's powerful friends would be able to pull big strings to get
them, if not a suspended sentence, at least a small stretch in jail. But as he
stumbled along, he realised the two men behind him would not accept that.

They
were approaching the house at right-angles to the lake. It was about three
kilometres away. The Matabele compound would be on their left. Karl Becker made
a decision. When they were within a kilometre of the compound, he would scream
out a warning.

He had
no chance. After half a kilometre the cold voice of Creasy told him to stop. A
moment later, he felt hard hands gripping his shoulders, then his head was
pulled back by his hair and a piece of cloth was forced into his mouth and tied
tight behind his neck. The voice of the Selous Scout was whispering in his ear.

"We
don't want any singsongs out here. If you try anything at all, you get a bullet
in the back of the head."

The
voice carried total conviction. Karl Becker felt a push and stumbled forward
towards the house. He had no thoughts of trying to warn anybody. Now it was up
to his father.

They
stopped about a kilometre from the house. Karl sank to his knees in exhaustion
and then rolled over on to his side. The house was very visible under the
security floodlights. He listened as the two men discussed their strategy.

"Maybe
we work our way around," Creasy said, "and cut off the electricity."

Maxie
disagreed. "He's a rich man. No doubt he's got an emergency generator.
There are plenty of power cuts in this area. That generator might automatically
kick in. If not, somebody will come from the compound to start it up."

They
squatted in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Creasy prodded Karl with
his rifle and said, "Well. This is the only child. I guess we just walk up
to the front door with the gun at the back of his head and ring the
doorbell."

Another
silence and then Maxie answered, "I don't see why not. Let's rig it
up."

Roughly
he pulled Karl to his feet. Then he unwrapped a length of twine from around his
waist and threaded one end through the trigger guard of his rifle. The other
end went round Karl's neck. When the two ends were tied together, the muzzle of
the rifle was held firmly at the back of Karl's cranium.

"Don't
jerk around," Maxie told him, "or your brains get dislodged ... if
you've got any."

They
moved forward again, crossing the scrub very slowly.

Michael picked them up as they entered the outer parabola of light. He immediately
recognised Creasy's shape and then Maxie's. He took in the whole tableau and
realised what was happening. His first instincts were to move down and join
them, but as he rose to his feet he remembered his training: always watch and
wait. If you're in the background, always stay in the background until you know what is going on.

Michael flicked off the safety of the AK47 and squatted back on to his haunches. He
watched as the trio moved around to the front of the house under the bright lights.

In the large master bedroom of the house, Rolph Becker woke to the high-pitched buzz
of the alarm set into the headrest of the bed. The transition from deep sleep
to total awareness took less than five seconds. He flicked off the alarm, slid
out of bed and padded to the curtained windows. Of course, it could be just a
hyena or some other curious animal the had tripped the infra-red alarms
surrounding the house, but as he parted the curtain half an inch, he saw his
son, fifty metres away, with the rifle at the back of his head and the two men
behind him. He paused only for a silent curse and then moved fast.

Four times in rapid succession he pressed a button by the bedroom door. It connected
to a buzzer in the Matabele compound and the four loud buzzes would indicate a
total emergency. Then he was through the bedroom door and pulling down a rifle
from the rack in the hall. He was dressed only in a brightly-coloured sarong.
He leaned against the wall of the hall and waited. He had bought the chimes for
the doorbell in Johannesburg four years ago. It had amused him and his visiting
friends. Ten seconds later, when the bell was pushed outside, he listened to
the opening bars of Beethoven's First Piano Concerto.