Black Horn (11 page)

Lucy Kwok was silent for a while, then she said, "He told me on that last night
that he was in love with me. It must have been true. He threw me out of that
window. He could have followed and tried to escape. He had already fired all
the bullets in his gut... but he stayed there and died."

Inspector Lau walked back to the bed and looked down at her again and said, "Were
you in love with him?"

Slowly, she shook her head.

"No. But I was coming to like him very much. Maybe love would have followed. Who can
say? That's destiny. Maybe gweilos fall in love more quickly that we do."

Inspector Lau walked slowly towards the door. Then he turned and said to her, "Colin
Chapman looked like a gweilo, but he was not a gweilo. His heart and his mind
and his soul came from the middle kingdom. All I want now is the heart and the
mind and the soul of Tommy Mo. Either locked up in a prison cell... or dead."

From across the room, she asked, "Would you kill him yourself?"

"No. I'm a policeman. But sometimes I wish I was not...I'll pick you up at three
o'clock tomorrow, then I'll take you to the airport."

It was
only a one hour flight to Bulawayo. The Gulfstream touched down just after 9
a.m. It taxied behind the Land-rover with the flashing light to an area away
from the main terminal. The police car was waiting and another civilian
Land-rover. The steward lowered the steps and within minutes two men had
climbed aboard, both white. One was in the uniform of an Inspector of Police
and the other was clad in the typical clothes of a white farmer: khaki shorts,
khaki shirt and rough suede ankle boots. The farmer carried a large canvas bag.

Maxie
knew them both. The farmer was his cousin. The weapons were in the bag.
Although he had not seen his cousin for more than fourteen years, they greeted
each other casually, as if it had only been yesterday. It was the way of
Rhodesians. The Inspector was in his early fifties. He shook Maxie's hand
warmly and Maxie said, "This is a surprise."

The
Inspector said, "I guess it must be. I decided to stay on for a year after
Independence. At first, things were rough but I stuck out a second year and
then things improved, so I'm still here."

Maxie
grinned. "Christ! They even made you Inspector." He turned to Creasy
and said, "This is Robin Gilbert. We were at school together." He
then introduced the Inspector to Gloria, who had spent the short journey
reading the local newspaper.

The policeman said, "I understand you're going straight on to Vic Falls, so
let's get this business over with."

The
farmer lifted the canvas bag on to the saloon table and unzipped it. Creasy
took out the sheaf of papers that Ndlovu had given him in Harare, and passed
them to Robin Gilbert. It took ten minutes for Gilbert to check the weapons
against the licences. He then countersigned the licences and handed them back
to Creasy, saying, "Mr Creasy, whenever you or Maxie or Michael Creasy are
carrying one of these guns, always have the relevant licence on your
person."

"Understood."

Gloria
was looking at the assortment of rifles and pistols. She said, "God
Almighty! There's only three of you. This is enough for a small army."

Creasy
explained. "They serve different purposes for different occasions. We're
not going to carry them all around at the same time." He pointed.
"That's a high-velocity rifle for long-range. Next to it is a lightweight
.22 with silencer. Those other two rifles are AK47S for close work. The pistols
are Colt 1911s and very effective." He picked up one of the AK47S and one
of the pistols and put them back into the canvas bag, together with two of the
licences, and said to the farmer, "Please be sure they get to Michael in
Harare before nightfall."

The
farmer nodded. "I'll be there by late afternoon." He had a small
battered satchel over one shoulder. He lifted it off and tossed it to Maxie and
said, "Biltong. Made from young kudu."

Maxie's
eyes literally sparkled with pleasure as he unstrapped the satchel and lifted
out what looked like two kilos of dark leather.

"What
the hell is that?" Gloria asked.

Creasy
explained. "It's dried and salted meat. What we call 'jerky' in
America. Over there, we make it mostly with beef, but here they use game. You
might say it's an acquired taste, but a man could live in the bush for many
days on that much biltong and nothing else except water."

The
farmer picked up the canvas bag, made his farewells and left. The policeman
gestured to Creasy, who followed him down the aircraft. Once out of earshot, he
said, "I understand you're going straight from here to Vic Falls."

"That's
correct."

"I'm
going up there today myself, to do a couple of weeks' duty in the area."

"Was
that a sudden decision by Ndlovu?"

"I
guess so. I got the orders last night."

"He's
sending you up there to keep an eye on us?"

Gilbert
shook his head. "I think not. It would be a waste of time, my trying to
keep an eye on you two in the bush... You'd lose me in about sixty seconds...
No. Ndlovu knows that I was friendly with Maxie. It makes sense to have someone
like me close to the area. Maxie's more likely to confide in me than in some
black policeman he doesn't know."

"Sounds
likely," Creasy said. "So, you'll base yourself at Vic Falls?"

"Not
exactly. I'll move back and forth, between Vic Falls and Binga. I'll be in
radio contact with the stations at both places. If you come across anything,
just get in touch."

"Will
do."

Gilbert
hesitated and then said, "Do you think I could hitch a ride on this thing?
It would save me a boring four hour drive."

Creasy
smiled wryly. "I'll ask Mrs Manners. But she's a bit of an old bitch, and
not in a very good mood this morning."

Creasy
walked back up to the saloon, followed by Gilbert. Gloria was being served a
cup of coffee by the steward. She was still reading the newspaper.

Creasy
said, "Mrs Manners, Inspector Gilbert is also traveling to Vic Falls
today. His first job is to check your security at the Azambezi Lodge. If we
take him with us, it will save him a four hour journey by car."

Gloria
looked up and stared at the policeman for several seconds, and then said,
"Sure. Why not?" She turned to the steward. "Give the man a cup
of coffee."

Creasy
moved further forward towards the cockpit, saying, "I'll tell the pilot to
get going."

Again,
the policeman followed him, and at the cockpit door he tapped Creasy on the
shoulder. Creasy turned.

"How
did you know?" Gilbert asked.

"Know
what?"

"That
at the top of my list of orders from Commander Ndlovu is to arrange total
security for Mrs Manners?"

"It
wasn't hard to work out. The last thing Ndlovu needs is for another American to
get shot in his country." He pointed back down the aircraft.
"Especially one like that." He turned back to the cockpit door,
opened it and said, "Let's get this mother off the ground."

The row
erupted about fifteen minutes later, as they flew over Matabeleland. Creasy and
Robin Gilbert were sitting to the rear of the aircraft. Creasy was picking the
policeman's brains about the local conditions and the policeman was briefing
him on the situation regarding local politics and economics and the poaching
problem. Maxie was up front in the saloon, drinking coffee with Gloria and
Ruby. Gloria had tried a piece of biltong and didn't like it. She had finished
reading the newspaper and was obviously bored. She showed no interest in the
scenery unfolding below.

"When
are you and Creasy going into the bush?" she asked Maxie.

"At
dawn tomorrow."

"When
will you reach the site?"

"It
depends."

"On
what?"

"On
how fast we move."

"Goddamn
it! You don't know how fast you're going to move?"

"No.
It could take two days or three days."

"Why?"

Maxie
sighed and tried to explain. "We'll be looking for spoor... tracks. A lot
depends on the condition of the ground. How dry it is, which way the wind was
blowing and is blowing."

She
leaned forward and said tightly, "Don't bullshit me! I've read all the
police reports. They had trackers in that area for days and they found
nothing."

"Mrs
Manners, we're not looking for tracks that will be weeks old. We're looking for
recent tracks."

"Why?"

"Because
other people may have been in the area when your daughter was killed and they
may have gone back into that area."

Gloria
leaned even further forward, and in her tight voice said, "You'd better
understand something. I don't want you chasing after some goddamn poachers and
wasting my money. You work for me, not for the Zimbabwe Wildlife
Department!"

She was
suddenly looking at a pair of very cold eyes. The voice was equally cold, but
Creasy heard it from the back of the plane. He stood up and starting walking to
the saloon.

Maxie said, "Wind in your neck, lady. I am not working for you. I came down here
on expenses only. You paid my hotel bills and you paid my food. But if you have
your accountant examine the bills, you'll find out that you never paid for any
of my drinks at the hotels. I'll tell you why. Many years ago, I spent a couple
of years as a hunter, working for a safari company. We had many American
clients, most of whom were spoilt over-rich idiots. When the professional
hunters used to meet up with each other back in Bulawayo and ask how each
other's trips went, we used a very cryptic phrase. We either said, 'I was
drinking their whisky' or 'I was drinking my own whisky.' It
meant that the clients were either friendly and co-operative or they were
unfriendly morons. And let me tell you lady, so far on this trip, I've been
drinking my own whisky. I don't pretend to like you, although I'm sorry about
your problems. Now understand one last thing: if I come across the fresh spoor
of rhino poachers, I'm going after them. That's how it is, and if you don't
like it, I'll get off this plane at Vic Falls and head home."

The
woman sat rigid, and then looked up to see Creasy standing above them. She
said, "Did you hear what this bastard said to me?"

Creasy
nodded. "Yes, He took the words right out of my mouth." Ruby was
looking on in fascination. Creasy continued, "Maxie is right. We don't
work for you. That was the deal we made in Denver. We came down here to have a
look. If we find something that makes it worthwhile continuing, then you start
paying. I hope we do find something, because it would give me pleasure to start
spending some of your money. We'll know one way or another within four or five
days. Until that time, I suggest you keep control of yourself, otherwise, even
if we do find something, we're likely to piss off and drink our own
whisky."

In
spite of the air-conditioning, the sweat poured off Michael's face. The
dance-floor was packed and gyrating to the rhythm of the eight-piece African
band. The sound system was antique, as were the instruments, but the music was
straight from the soul of Africa and nothing like the sounds of those Zimbabwe
bands that had been 'discovered' and then sanitised in European
recording studios. The girl in front of him was called Shavi and was Indian;
part of the community that had remained in the country after Independence. She
was small and slight, with huge luminous eyes and a curved red mouth which was
constantly breaking into a smile.

There
were few white faces on the dance-floor or at the long white bar which only
served beer and soft drinks. The club was located in a township ten kilometres
from the city centre and was wonderfully unsophisticated. He had met Shavi in
the disco at the Sheraton and quickly warmed to her maverick nature. Over a
drink, she had explained that the substantial Indian community, which had first
been brought to Rhodesia by the British as skilled labourers on the railways,
had over the years become a sort of middle-class, mainly involved in retailing
and property. Her family owned a large garment store. They would not be pleased
that she was consorting even with a European, and they would be horrified if
they thought she went out with an African. She was the new generation. She had
been born in the country and it was as much hers as anyone else's and she would
go out with who the hell she likes... even a Maltese. Michael had looked around
the sophisticated disco and remarked that it would not have been out of place
in any big European city. She had immediately suggested a change of venue and
after a taxi ride and a fifty cent entrance fee, they had walked into
Mushambira Club in the suburb of Highlands and its pounding music.

He was
surprised that the almost entirely black clientele were so well-dressed, the
men in suits and ties and the women in brightly-coloured well-made dresses.
Shavi explained that after the first flush of being able to go into the
sophisticated white clubs in Harare, a lot of even wealthy blacks prefer the
raw music and atmosphere of places like the Mushambira Club Bagamba. They felt
more relaxed among their own, and the few liberal-type whites who went there
were simply tolerated.

"And
you?" Michael had asked.

She had
laughed and answered, "I'm unique. Perhaps the only Indian woman who's
ever walked through these doors. I speak perfect Shona and have no prejudices
and they feel that. I've also been here with an African boyfriend who I met at
university. He's now on a scholarship in London."

"Did
you love him?"

"Oh,
yes. But London is far away and I'm only nineteen with much to do."

They
danced almost non-stop for about an hour, to the Blacks Unlimited band, until
finally Michael took her by the hand and said, "The bar and a cold beer
beckons... And I'd like to meet a few of the locals."