Ivory (44 page)

She also wished she could get on an aeroplane and fly away from George. She wanted as much distance between her and him as fast as possible. But she knew, also, that she could never escape him. At least not until he was behind bars.

Jane looked at the plain manila envelope on the writing desk in her hotel room and shuddered when she remembered the grainy video on the computer. She saw again the sadistic joy in George's face as he strangled the girl, his momentary shock when he realised she was dead, and the cool deliberateness with which he negotiated the disposal of her body with the brothel's owner.

She had tendered her resignation to George that morning over breakfast, but had not confronted him with what she'd found on board the
Penfold Son
.

Something about the way he had handled the news scared her. He had been calm. ‘I see,' was all he had said when she told him she was quitting, with effect from that moment, with no notice.

He'd put down his morning newspaper and coffee and said, ‘I take it you won't be marrying me then?'

She'd shaken her head.

‘Is there any point in asking you why, or if you wish to reconsider?'

What could she have said that wouldn't tip him off about what she was about to do? Had he guessed already that it had been her – with help – who had broken into the naval yard last night and illegally boarded the
Penfold Son
?

There was nothing to say to him and she sensed he knew all too well why she was leaving him and the company.

The luminous numbers on the digital clock radio by the bed read nine fifty-one. It was time for her to check out. She had booked a car for ten. She would be at the Cape Town homicide squad at quarter past the hour, and was due to board her ship at eleven-thirty, for a one o'clock sailing. After that she would be safe.

She'd used the internet to find the name of the detective handling the
investigation into the strangling murder of a nineteen-year-old Cape Town prostitute two months earlier.

Detective Inspector Jan Kruger had sounded distracted to the point of rudeness when she'd called, asking if he was still investigating the death of a prostitute named Susan Hawkins. ‘
Ja
, but I have another call coming through on my cell phone,' he'd said. But she'd heard the musical ring tone in the background cut out as soon as she'd told him she had a video of the prostitute's death.

Jane had refused to give her name, or to say how she had acquired the video, but asked when and where they could meet, so she could deliver it to him. Kruger had told her to come to Cape Town Central Police Station and ask for him.

Alex's parting words lingered in her mind. ‘Be careful.'

She had only one bag with her, containing the new clothes she had bought in Johannesburg at George's behest. She would burn all of them as soon as she got to the UK. She didn't want a single thing in her life to remind her of him. Jane picked up the holdall and left the room, looking up and down the corridor before pressing the ‘down' button on the lift.

The lobby was busy, but she couldn't see anyone other than half-a-dozen tourists queuing to check out, a couple of porters and a man sitting on a settee reading a newspaper. She couldn't see his face, but he had black hands.

Jane waited impatiently behind a German couple who were disputing their bill in broken English. She kept glancing about and thought she saw the seated man raise his newspaper quickly, as if trying to cover his face, when she turned in his direction.

She was regretting tendering her resignation to George and feeling more afraid by the minute. I should have just gone to the police and then run, she thought. ‘Good morning, ma'am, can I help?' the receptionist said. Jane passed her key card to the young man and looked around again. The man was engrossed in his newspaper.

Jane paid and walked quickly across to the concierge. She was wearing the grey business suit she'd bought for the meetings she wouldn't
be attending. Her new shoes rubbed painfully on her heels. ‘I have a car booked in the name of Humphries, for ten.'

As the concierge walked to the door to signal the waiting driver someone walked past them. Jane saw the back of the man she'd been watching, his newspaper now folded under his arm. There was something familiar about his heavyset build and the erect swagger of his walk.

Jane was filled with sudden dread. The car, a black Mercedes sedan, pulled up, and the driver popped the boot and opened his door.

Jane raced past the concierge and thumped down on the boot with her fist, slamming it shut. She opened the back door and tossed her bag on the leather seat. ‘Stay there and shut the door!'

The driver looked taken aback at being ordered in such a way but closed his door anyway, and Jane slammed the back and jumped into the front passenger seat. ‘Cape Town Central Police Station. Quickly!'

‘
Yebo
madam,' said the driver.

Jane looked over her shoulder, scanning the car park, as the driver stopped and put a ticket into a reader at a boom gate. She saw a white Vito minibus reversing out of a car space, but the windows were tinted, so she couldn't get a good look at the driver or passenger.

‘Look, I don't mean to be melodramatic . . .'

‘What?' said the driver.

‘Don't panic, but do you have a gun?'

The driver looked across at her as if she were mad. ‘Why?'

‘I think we might be being followed.'

The driver looked into his rear-view mirror. ‘There is no one behind us. But I will keep watch if you wish.'

She swivelled in her seat and saw the white van, but then sighed with relief as it indicated to turn right once it cleared the boom gate, taking it in the opposite direction to them.

‘I'm sorry for that, it's just that . . .'

As Jane started to face forward again the driver stood on the brake and the Mercedes skidded to a halt. He crunched the gear lever into reverse and dropped the clutch, spinning the wheels. Jane screamed as
she saw what had made him stop. A blue Audi had stopped at ninety degrees, blocking their way. Two men wearing black ski masks were out of the car walking towards her, submachine-guns in their hands.

Jane ducked her head and looked between the front seats out the back window. The white van that had turned off was now reversing at high speed, weaving crazily as the driver tried to stay straight but then over-corrected. Her driver was closing the distance between them and the van rapidly and she thought he was going to try to ram the larger vehicle.

Jane heard a noise like hail hitting a tin roof, and the windscreen shattered into chunks and fell back in on her. She put her hands over her head and felt the sharp shards bouncing off her skin. The driver braked hard again and she felt herself pushed back into the seat. She saw him reach under his seat and grab a black pistol.

As he started to raise the gun Jane heard shouting from in front and behind, then two shots. She turned to look up and the driver's head seemed to explode, splattering her with blood and brains. Jane screamed and ducked behind the dashboard. She saw the dead driver's gun in the foot well. Almost paralysed with fear and shock, she nonetheless reached out for it. The pistol trembled in her hand.

‘I'm not supposed to kill you now, but I'll gladly do so.'

She felt the painful stab of hot metal in the back of her neck. She sat up and tried to look around, but the man who had spoken grabbed a handful of her hair and wrenched her out of the car. ‘Drop the gun, get out and keep quiet.'

Through the pain and frustration that brought tears to her eyes she recognised the voice.

Piet van Zyl.

 

The slaughtering of the elephants was taking place with gory efficiency in the bush clearing. Frank Cole was supervising the butchering gang and his hands and bare legs were already soaked red.

Alex turned away. He wasn't weak-stomached – he'd spent too much time in war zones for that – but he was saddened by the waste of these
great animals. He could understand the logical arguments in favour of culling, but as someone who had invested in the future of Mozambican tourism, he felt the South African government hadn't given nature enough time to work out its own solution to elephant overcrowding in Kruger. He was sure that, given a few more years, more and more elephants would cross the border and populate the Greater Limpopo Transfrontier Park and other reserves further afield, such as Gorongosa.

Vultures were already circling above them, a flock of twenty or more riding the thermal currents while they kept watch on the proceedings below.

Each animal was gutted first, and there were mounds of purple-blue entrails oozing around the men as they worked. Chainsaws were used to cleave off great sides of meat and skin, which were then loaded onto the trailers with a crane on the back of a Unimog truck.

Workers used axes to remove the precious ivory. Each tusk came out with a wet, bloody mass of fat and tissue attached to one end. They were stacked in a growing heap, awaiting pick-up by the helicopter.

Kufa and Novak were dutifully pretending to record the event with their cameras. Alex wrinkled his nose at the stench of blood and half-digested vegetable matter.

‘Let's go,' he said.

Frank walked over to him, wiping his hands on his shorts. ‘I won't shake your hand. At least you were smart enough to wear gloves. Tell one of the army guys to drive you back to Satara in the Mog. We'll be an hour or so here.'

Alex thanked Frank for his time and said he had found the whole experience fascinating. He couldn't wait to get back to his island.

Jane should be three days into her voyage home by now. He wondered what had happened to George Penfold and if she'd taken his advice not to tell her boss that she was quitting, just to not show up for her meeting at De Witt Shipping.

‘Alex?'

‘What?'

‘We're ready, man.' Novak had his camera over his shoulder and had
obviously been standing next to him for a few seconds unnoticed. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. Of course.'

They drove back along the fire-trail road to the Satara airstrip. The Oryx sat in the sun like a huge dragonfly, its rotors still and limp, as if it were sagging in the midday heat.

Colonel De Villiers walked out of the headquarters tent and lit a cigarette. ‘Did you get some film of the cull?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘The culling teams are all reporting in. We're close to the target already. Eighty-seven elephants killed. Mess tent's over there if you and your guys want to get some food.'

‘I'm not hungry,' Kufa said to him as they walked away. ‘Not after watching that.'

Alex nodded. ‘We just need to keep out of sight until the chopper's ready to leave.'

Alex took a cold drink in the mess and then walked back outside towards the car park. Kevin opened the door of the Land Cruiser and waved him over. It looked like he, Heinrich, Henri and Kobus had been sitting inside with the engine running and the airconditioning on. He didn't blame them.

‘We've been busy while you were off gallivanting about,' Kevin said to him.

‘Do tell.'

‘We took a drive down the main road. There's another fire trail closed to public access, not far from here. It looks like a good place for us to wait for the pick-up. There's a clearing big enough for the chopper to land – looks like an old road-work quarry that the park guys have been using as a rubbish tip.'

‘Good.' Alex looked back out towards the row of tents and saw De Villiers waving at him. ‘I'd better go. Head off as soon as we leave in the helo. Come on, Kobus. Stick close to me from now on.'

‘Get your men saddled up. Chopper's leaving in five,' Captain Steyn yelled to Alex as he approached. He heard the whine of the aircraft's
turbine engines starting up. When he turned back to call to Kufa and Novak to drop their drinks he saw the rotor blades slowly start turning. ‘It's all gone much better than we could expect. All the ivory is out and ready for collection and the parks guys have decided to call it a day at eighty-seven.'

Alex took a bulky black backpack from the rear of the Land Cruiser and shouldered it. He, Kufa, Kobus and Novak strode through the dry yellow grass to the makeshift helipad.

Kevin started the Land Cruiser and drove past them. Alex held up his right thumb in the air and the helicopter copilot raised his in reply. ‘Come on!' he called to Novak and Kufa above the growing din of the engines.

They jogged across the clearing, heads bent to make sure they were below the spinning rotors, and eyes down to avoid the storm of dirt and stone and grass that was being blasted out around the Oryx. They hefted their bags into the cargo compartment and a flight engineer in a flying suit helped them aboard.

‘Joost,' said the crewman. Alex took the man's hand and he pulled him inside. ‘Welcome aboard!' He was yelling in Alex's ear, his lips almost as close as a lover's. ‘Captain'll talk to you on the headset once we're airborne. Sorry for the rush, hey, but it looks like we'll be in the pub early this afternoon.'

Alex grinned and gave the man a thumbs up. Joost spoke into his intercom and stuck his head out of the cargo hatch to make sure all was clear. The Oryx rocked a little then lifted off. The pilot dropped the nose to gather speed and they lurched away from the airstrip.

Joost passed Alex a bulky set of headphones and clipped a switch to the front of his uniform. ‘Press this when you want to speak,' he said, and Alex heard him clearly through the earpieces.

‘Welcome aboard,' said the pilot. He turned and smiled briefly. He was white, a colonel, and looked to be in his forties. An experienced operator. ‘Sorry for the rush, but we don't waste daylight.'

‘We'll try not to get in the way,' Alex assured the man.

‘No problem. We're all looking forward to being famous, although
Petrice's used to the limelight, being one of our first African female pilots.'