Trackers (32 page)

The steak was perfect, the chips hot and fresh, the side
dishes of baby corn and roasted sweet peppers not really to my taste.

I began to doubt he would ever show up.

At ten to nine Inkunzi and his entourage walked into the
restaurant - four young women, three henchmen. I recognised one of them. He was
one of the kickers that night in the Waterberg.

They sat down at a table to the left of me. I turned my back
to them, pulled my sports bag closer and unzipped it.

The MAG-7 lay there. Just in case.

They were loud. Laughing, talking, expansive gestures. Very
much at home.

I finished my main course, declined the dessert, asked for
the bill. When it came, I paid at the table.

I picked up the bag, swung it over my shoulder so the gun was
close to hand, turned around and strolled out, keeping my face turned away from
them.

It wasn't hard to find his car. A black BMW X5 with
extravagant wheel rims. The number plate said INKUNZI. A modest man.

No other bodyguards or sentries. I sat down at the Village
Walk fountain, phoned the taxi company on my cellphone and asked them to send
a car. I took the baseball cap out of my bag and pulled it over my head, put on
the glasses. Ten minutes later the taxi arrived. I got in, asked the driver to
park so that I could see the interior of the restaurant.

'The meter is running,' he said.

'Let it run.'

I gave him Inkunzi's home address. 'Do you know where this
is?'

He pointed at the GPS against the windscreen. 'I know where
everything is,' and he typed in the address. The device showed it was 6.9 km
from where we were now, with an expected drive time of fourteen minutes.

'When I give you the signal, we need to get there fast.'

'Yebo.' Seen everything, heard everything. This was
Johannesburg.

Ten minutes later he asked whether he could put some music
on.

Of course, I said. He tuned to a station playing
kwaito
, sat listening, unconcerned.

At half past ten he asked: 'Woman trouble?'

'Yes.'

'Welcome to the club.' With a sigh.

At a quarter to eleven I saw Inkunzi and company approach the
door.

'Let's go,' I said.

He switched on the engine, pulled away smoothly, following
the GPS directions, quickly and surely, without exceeding speed limits.

The streets of Gallo Manor were quiet, the residents safe
behind walls and security systems. On the way we saw two private response
vehicles on patrol. Neither paid us much attention.

'Right there,' I pointed at the deep shadow beneath one of
the trees in the street, and pulled my bag close.

The fee was R265. I gave him R350. 'Buy her some roses. It
works for me,' I said, before getting out.

'Doesn't look like it, but thanks.' He cast a sidelong glance
at the black bag I was holding, shook his head and drove off.

In order to come
close to an animal, trackers must remain undetected not only by the animal, but
also by other animals that may alert it.

The Art of
Tracking: Principles of tracking

Timing is everything. And a little bit of luck.

I assumed Inkunzi would have the best available alarm system
- wide-angle motion sensors outside, the smaller infrared eyes inside. I was
counting on him turning them off via remote control when he came home. That was
my window of opportunity.

There were two major risks: that a patrol vehicle would
challenge me before he arrived, or that he or one of his cronies would spot me
scaling the wall. That's where luck came in.

The trouble was that he took longer than I expected. I stood
in the shadow of a jacaranda tree, twenty metres from Inkunzi's wall, took out
my gloves and put them on. Hitched the black bag over my shoulder. I waited. I
could hear the hiss of traffic from the Nl, a car alarm complaining
monotonously, an accelerating motorbike screaming through the gear changes.

Ten minutes. No movement, no patrols.

Fifteen minutes.

Did they go somewhere else? Drop someone off? Pick someone
up?

Twenty minutes. My luck was running out.

At twenty-two minutes, lights appeared at the end of the
street.

I moved behind the trunk of the tree, hoping it was wide
enough.

The lights washed over me, and disappeared. I peered out.
Three of them in the BMW, waiting for the gate to slide open. I had to move
fast.

The gate was open. He drove in. I ran.

I spotted another vehicle approaching. Slowly. Security
patrol?

I threw my bag over, leaped, grabbed the top of the wall,
running shoes slipping against the plastered smoothness, pulling myself up,
desperate.

On top. I slid across, rolled off the other side. Too
exposed, looked for the bag. It lay on a patch of lawn. The sound of a garage
door closing automatically. I grabbed the bag, darting between the shrubs
towards the house.

How much time did I have before they
activated the alarm?

A massive house, modern design, three levels following the
contours of the land. The lowest point was the furthest from me, east, a long
way around the back. I ran along the southern side of the building, where the
smaller windows would be, the bathrooms and store rooms.

Lights went on inside, to the left of me, on the level
closest to the front gate. I would have to move further along, away from the
activity.

Sprinted full speed on the paved pathway right next to the
house. Windows, too high to reach.

A set of steps, I nearly fell. Level two. Windows still too
high. The sand was running through the hourglass.

More steps, third level, windows within reach, I was out of
time. The first window, chest high, was just big enough for me to get through.
I took a T-shirt out of my bag, twisted it around my hand, and hit the glass hard.
It fell inwards, a single crash, loud in my ears. I reached through, opened the
catch, pulled the window wide, threw the T-shirt in, then the bag, wriggled
through. I pushed the window shut.

There was a contact sensor. Was the
interior alarm off?

It was a toilet, interior door shut. I knelt and shoved the
T-shirt back into the bag, took the MAG out, pumped a round into the chamber.

Seconds ticked away. Nothing
happened.

Phase One successful.

I hoped.

Phase Two would be easy bar one complicating factor: I needed
personal one-to-one time with Inkunzi. I had to conduct my business without his
henchmen knowing I was here, because if I dented his ego in front of his
companions, if I made the gang leader lose face, he would come looking for me.

But I could use his status to my advantage, put it on the
line. I had to prove he was vulnerable. That would give me leverage. Another
reason to isolate him, confront him alone. Which made it all much more
difficult.

I was counting on two basic assumptions: that people felt
safe behind security systems, and that this house had a typical layout -
reception and entertainment areas up front near the garage, personal areas,
such as bedrooms, at the back. And Julius would have the biggest one, the
throne room.

This part of the house was dead silent.

I took out my camera and put it in my shirt pocket. Then the
Energizer torch, twisting the looped cord around my left hand.

I reached my left hand up and opened the toilet door quietly,
still crouching.

A dark passage.

I snapped on the light on the red filter to maintain my night
vision.

The bedrooms should be to the right of me. I shuffled
forward, peering first left in the direction I suspected Inkunzi and his
buddies were still partying.

Nothing.

I looked right. A long dark passage. I illuminated it quickly
with the torch. Doors led off to the right and left.

I moved, vaguely remembering response team training from
twenty years back, the MAG leading every move. The passage was wide, at the far
end was the door I guessed would be the master bedroom.

It was shut.

A noise behind me. I pressed the torch to my shirt to douse
it, spun around and dropped to my haunches, MAG to my shoulder.

A voice, someone appeared at the end of the passage, opened a
door, switched a light on and disappeared into a room. I rolled to the open
door nearest to me. A bedroom, big. Massive bed, lots of pillows. I sat down
against the wall beside the door and listened.

I heard the door at the end of the passage close. Quiet again.

I peered cautiously around the door jamb. There was no one to
be seen. Did he come to fetch something?

I waited for fifteen seconds, then jogged down the passage,
to the closed door at the end. I put my hand on the lever and pressed down. The
door swung open.

It was dark inside.

I slipped inside, shut the door behind me.

An enormous room. The northern side was glass, a sliding door
behind a light lace curtain. Outside, lights twinkled in
a swimming pool. In front of the window stood a couch and two chairs, a coffee
table. Against the eastern wall was a giant bed with wooden headboard. I shone
the torch on it. A charging bull was carved in it, ominous in the red light.
The southern wall consisted of white louvre doors from end to end: the two in
the centre stood open, leading to a bathroom where marble and stainless steel
were dimly visible. To the left of me, on the western wall, was a large
flat-screen TV with surround sound speakers.

I jogged over to the louvre doors to
the left of the bathroom entrance and opened them. A walk-in wardrobe. Clothes
hung in neat rows, impressive in their excess. Below were shoes, above were
jackets, trousers, shirts, ties, belts.

Against the rear wall was a gun safe.
I would have to keep him away from that.

I stepped out, back into the room.
Opened the doors on the right side. Another walk-in wardrobe. Here and there
hung the odd woman's garment. This one was clearly not used much. Just what I
was looking for.

I closed the door behind me, sat down
in the middle of the space, took the camera out of my pocket, put it down in
front of me on the thick white carpet, cradled the MAG in my arms. Switched off
the torch.

I would have to wait till he came.

Mock charges, especially by old
and lone bulls, are characterised by the ears spread out and a loud trumpeting
display, and may end a few metres from the intruder, after which the Elephant
retreats. To run away may be fatal. If it demonstrates, stand still until it
stops, then slowly move away downwind.

The Art of Tracking:
Dangerous animals

I had a long wait.

Just after twenty past twelve I heard
the bedroom door open. He switched on the light and closed the door. I stayed
seated, pointing the shotgun at the entrance to the wardrobe.

Strips of light shone through the slats. Suddenly the sound
of the TV, a soccer channel, the sound just loud enough that I could not hear
his movements.

Three minutes later, water began to run next door. Sounded
like the shower. This was the perfect Kodak moment. I gave him enough time to
get the water temperature right and get in. I stood up, picked up the camera,
switched it on, choosing the auto mode. Held it in my left hand, the MAG in my
right, stepped out, walked across to the door leading to the passage, turned
the key to lock it. Then I went into the bathroom.

Inkunzi was in the shower, his back to me, busy soaping
himself. Broad shoulders, strong arms, good muscle definition. The scars of old
knife fights.

He was singing softly in Zulu.

I raised the camera, let it auto-focus. Aimed the MAG.

'Julius!' I called out quietly.

His head jerked around. I clicked, the flash catching his
indignation.

He swore, annoyance turning to rage. I clicked again, pushed
the camera in my pocket and held the gun firmly in both hands, lifting it to my
shoulder and aiming for his face.

'Blast from the past,' I said.

'What?' The water was still streaming over him, his face
still dumbfounded.

'Close the taps.'

He took a while to gather his wits, and turn the water off.

'Another MAG-7,' I said. 'Not very accurate. But at this
distance it will blow your knee away. So we are going to have a quiet little
chat, but if I hear anyone outside I will start shooting. Do you understand?'