Trackers (20 page)

'What?' asked Flea. She wasn't stupid.

'Don't worry about the route,' said Lourens.

'Why did you look at each other like that?'

'There's a vehicle following us, for the past hour,' I said,
because she needed to know.

She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. Then
a short, crude laugh burst from her lips. 'You're joking.'

'See for yourself,' I said, and pointed at the mirror.

She leaned over, saw the lights. 'You say he's been behind us
for an hour?' Sceptical.

'He turns when we turn.'

'Big deal,' she said. 'Can I have some more coffee?' And
then: 'Do you think I'm going to fall for that one? Do you think I'm stupid?'

'No,' I said.

That seemed to satisfy her.

I considered the terrain. The road climbed up and down,
winding between invisible hills. I suspected we were in the Waterberg. In the
headlights the thorn trees grew densely up to the road's edge, there was an
occasional chunky rock formation. Not ideal.

'I want to make sure about this, Lourens. We'll wait for a
long downhill. Don't use your brakes; we don't want to alert them. But slow
down, use the gears to stop. Slowly, smoothly. Keep the lights on.'

'OK.'

Flea ignored us, sat there, sulking.

The road made a sweeping turn, first to the left, a kilometre
later it curved right, then a long straight stretch with a slight downhill
slope. Lourens took his foot off the accelerator, worked down through the
gears, put it in neutral. The Mercedes slowed. We watched the mirrors

keenly. The lights appeared around the first turn, growing
larger initially as they approached. Then they kept their distance.

I looked up at the cab light, moved the switch so it would
stay off when the door opened. 'Make sure you know how the road curves, and
then switch off your headlights.'

Lourens waited a bit and then turned off the lights. The night
was suddenly pitch black. The only lights were the ones behind us, considerably
closer now.

'When we stop, turn off the engine and use the handbrake. But
stay in your seat and keep your hand on the keys.'

'OK.' Calm, composed. Just what we needed.

I took the Glock out of the storage space, waited until we
rolled to a halt, opened the door, leaped out, ran around to the rear of the
truck, pistol in hand. Lourens turned the engine off.

The lights behind us, now only 200 metres away, snapped off
suddenly.

A very bad sign.

Stars, no moon. My eyes were not accustomed to the darkness,
I could only recognise the immediate surroundings, the road, the tall grass,
deep shadows of thorn trees across the road.

I listened. The sounds of the truck behind me, metal cooling.
Then, footsteps on the gravel.

'Get back in the truck,' I said softly.

She came and stood beside me. 'If the tranquilliser wears
off, the rhinos will go into a frenzy.'

I stared into the darkness trying to see them.

'I've seen a rhino smash its sinuses to a pulp against the
bars,' she said.

I put my finger to my lips, warning her to be quiet.

'It was dead the next day. I can't inject them in the dark.
Can we get moving?'

I knew enough. We had a problem. Someone was behind us,
someone with an agenda. And they didn't want to be seen. Content just to
follow.

I turned and went back to the passenger door, where I waited
for her. She didn't come straight away, wanting to make a point. Then she
moved, arms folded and head down, shot me a dirty look as she got in.

I climbed up after her and told Lourens: 'Let's go. Keep the
lights off as long as you can.'

She said: 'It's not a joke.'

Lourens concentrated on the road,
driving slowly.

I sat and thought things through.

They knew that we knew. They would have seen as little as I
did in the dark, but their engine had not been running. They would have heard
the Mercedes drive off. They would know we had to switch on our headlights
sooner or later, unless we meant to drive this slowly until daybreak. If they
were close enough they would be able to follow us without lights, using the
truck as a direction finder until daylight.

The question was not what they were after; there was a
million rands' of rhino horn within spitting distance from me. The question was
rather, what they were waiting for. One vehicle, not a large one, a sedan or
bakkie. Or a minibus that could take eight or ten people. Superior numbers if
we stopped. Which we had just done. And nothing had happened.

Were they aware we were armed? Or did they just assume? Or
was I mistaken entirely.

What would I do if I meant to hijack
a twenty-ton truck?

It depended on the purpose. I doubted our pursuers wanted
more than the horns. They just needed to force the truck to stop without
putting themselves in too much danger, neutralise the people, cut off the booty
and get away. There was only one way to do that easily.

I turned around on the seat so I could reach my sports bag
and took out the MAG-7.

'Good grief,' said Flea.

I clipped on my safety belt. 'Is there a safety belt for
her?' I asked Lourens.

'No, Oom.'

I looked at her. The arrogance was gone, but I saw reproach.
For the first time I noticed her left eye from close up. Another faint scar ran
from the fold in her lower lid, a centimetre down her cheek, fine as a hair.

'When I say "duck", you get down there,' and I
pointed at the foot well in front of my seat. 'I will make room for you.'

'Why?'

I was beginning to question my patience with her, but Lourens
pre-empted me. 'He's a professional bodyguard, Cornel. You should do as he
says.'

'A bodyguard?'

'Listen,' I said. 'The chances that they want the rhino alive
are extremely slim. Too much trouble, too much time to transfer them, too many
tranquillisers and need for expert care. We must assume they only want the
horns. That means they must force us to stop. The only sensible way is to block
the road ahead. We will have to run a blockade, knock something out of the way
...'

'No!' she said. 'The animals ...'

'The animals are protected enough. If we have to stop, we and
the animals will be in danger.'

She considered my argument. Then she nodded, to my surprise.
She took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Give me a chance to think.'

She sat motionless.

I checked the mirror, the road behind us remained dark. I
picked up the map again, so I could test my new theory against it.

Lourens said they had been behind us since before Alldays. On
the second long tarred road since we had set off, after about fifty kilometres
of gravel road. I didn't like to make assumptions, but I had to. Assumption
number one: they knew where we had loaded. There were simply too many roads in
Northern Limpopo for them to have found us by chance. Which meant at least one
vehicle had been behind us from the start. But once they realised we weren't
going to keep to the tar, they had to reduce the following distance in order
not to lose us on some obscure side road. That was why it had taken Lourens so
long to spot them.

Assumption number two was logical: they hadn't known which
route we would follow. They would have guessed, and, like Flea, assumed we
would take the Nl, with the R521 to Polokwane as the second option. If I were
in their shoes I would let my other vehicles - three at least, or four - wait
near Mokopane. Probably near one of the toll gates, a good place to attack a
stationary vehicle, remove the horns quickly and disappear.

Assumption number three: when our route deviated from
expectations, they would have had to reorganise. They would have a map and by
now would have plotted the straight line of our planned route - via Vaalwater,
Rustenburg and Ventersdorp. Our last turn-off, twenty minutes ago, would have
been the final indication.

Assumption number four: the devil works in darkness. They
would attack before daybreak. And they would have to work quickly now, before
we could reach a police station.

I measured the distances from Polokwane and Mokopane, calculated
average speed and probabilities. Every time I reached the same conclusion:
Vaalwater. They would have to act before Vaalwater. Within the next fifty
kilometres.

I folded the map and put it away. I put the Glock on the seat
between myself and Flea, held the MAG-7 in my hands.

'How strong is the bull bar in front?' I asked Lourens.

'That depends ...'

'If we had to knock a car or a bakkie out of the way?'

'Oom, three weeks ago we hit a kudu beyond Middelburg, and
that thing bent back so far it knocked out the windscreen.'

Not what I wanted to hear. 'But the engine is under here?'
and I gestured at the bulge under Flea.

'Yes, Oom, but the radiators are in front. If something hits
us badly, we're in trouble.'

Flea drew a breath to say something, then shook her head and
kept quiet.

I thought. 'If there is no way to get through, we will have
to stop. Lourens, they will try to block the road. There might be space to
force our way through on the side. Don't let fences intimidate you. If the veld
looks good on the other side ...' 'OK.'

'But you will have very little time to decide.'

He nodded, seated himself more firmly behind the steering
wheel, determined.

The mirror attracted my attention. I looked. The lights were
there again, much closer.

'They're back,' Lourens confirmed.

'Then it's close,' I said and opened the MAG-7.

Two hundred metres ahead, the road changed from night to day.

... the tracks
of animals fleeing indicates a disturbance, and if no signs of predators are
found, further investigation may reveal human intruders.

The Art of Tracking -
Introduction: Poaching

The headlights of four vehicles blinded us so we couldn't see
anything, except the rocky cliff rising up on the left and a black drop on the
right. The perfect place.

Lourens hit the brakes, I shouted at Flea to duck, moving my
legs to make room for her, wrestling with a plan of action: jump out to
distract them, or stay here to protect Lourens and Flea?

She did the one thing I wasn't expecting. Before she wriggled
down between the instrument panel and the seat, she picked up the Glock. I
grabbed at it, too late. Suddenly outside, to the right, a shadowy figure
appeared, out of nowhere, a man with a gun, waving his arm. Lourens jerked at
the wheel to avoid hitting him.

The truck skidded on the loose gravel, and for a second I
thought he would lose control.

We hit the man, sickening thud.

I decide to
get out, create two targets. Fighting the G-force, I unclip the seat belt,
shove open the door and jump in the hope that our own headlights will hide me.

A second in
the air, my feet hit the ground hard and I use the momentum, roll through the
long grass beside the road, stones and grass tufts, the MAG tight against my
side, rolling, shock of barbed wire ripping across my back, deep and painful.
On my feet, gasping for breath, as the brake lights of the Mercedes halt in a
cloud of dust. Ten metres away from me two figures rise from the grass, assault
rifles in their arms, charging at the truck. 'Kill the lights,' they yell, 'kill
the lights!' One kneels beside the cab, aims the rifle at the door, the other
reaches up, pulls it open, jumps down again, crouching next to his partner.
'Kill the lights,' a thunderous order, phantom shapes against the lights and
the swirling dust.

Lourens
turns off the lights.

'Now get out.'

The dust drifted lazily away. I saw they were black, the
weapons AK-47s. In front of the Mercedes another three appeared, rifles to
their shoulders, sights aimed at the windscreen.

Flea and the Glock lay there in wait, I hoped she was as
smart as I thought.

'Hold up your hands,' someone shouted from the other side of
the truck. 'Now, get down.'

Lourens got out.

'On the ground.'

At first I saw only his feet, showing under the truck, then
he sank down on his knees.

'Lie down.'

He lay down in the dust, hands on his head.

'You in there,' called one of the men kneeling on this side.
'Get out.'

I raised myself slowly, knelt in the grass, lifted the MAG,
thumbed off the safety catch, aimed at the AK closest to me, praying she would
obey.