Black Horn (14 page)

"They
won't go to the edge of the lake itself," Maxie said. "By now they
would have made camp about a kilometre from here, and they would be setting out
their traps on the game trails. They'll work individually, each setting up
about four traps each. They'll go back to those traps just before dark, and
then bring whatever they've caught back to the camp. That camp will be in a
hollow or dip, so that when they light their fire, it will be undetectable from
a distance. We move in just before nightfall. I go first, just wearing my
shorts and unarmed. You cover me with the 300.06. I'll approach from an angle,
so you'll have an open field of fire."

Two hours later, Creasy was chewing on the scorched haunch of an impala, and
listening as Maxie spoke in a strange language to the two Africans sitting across the fire.

They had lain in an outcrop of rocks as the sun went down, watching as the two
Batongka tribesmen returned to their camp. One carried an impala doe over his
shoulder, and the other, two small duikers under his arms. The one with the
impala carried a rifle in his left hand. They had watched as the animals were
expertly skinned and the skins hung up to dry over the branches of a nearby
tree. The rifle had been leant against the trunk of that tree.

The Africans had just begun to light their fire, when Maxie passed the two rifles
to Creasy, took off his shirt and walked in a semicircle towards the fire, his
arms held away from his body. They spotted him when a hyena scuttled away from
a clump of bushes. Immediately, one of them ran to the tree and the rifle.

Creasy lined him up in the sights of the 300.06; but it had not been necessary to
fire. Maxie called out in Batongka. He lifted his arms horizontally to the
ground. The African with the rifle held it with the barrel pointing to the
ground, and Maxie walked forward, talking confidently and reassuringly.

They turned out to be two brothers. As soon as Maxie assured them that he would not
report them to the authorities, they welcomed him and Creasy to their camp, and
from their ex-army rucksacks pulled out a goatskin gourd containing a local
brew made from fermented bananas. By the time it had been passed round the
campfire a few times, the mood was mellow.

Maxie talked and translated each sentence for Creasy's benefit.

"We are here because of the murders of the two white people near here, a few weeks ago."

The elder brother, who was old enough to have greying hair, nodded solemnly.
"It was a bad thing, and also for us. There were police and trackers all
over the area and we could not go hunting for at least two weeks."

"Do you make a living from your hunting?" Maxie asked.

The
grey-haired African shook his head.

"Not
what you'd call a living. We sell the meat for very little, and once a month a
man comes from Bulawayo and takes the skins. We get fifty cents for a good
impala skin and we know he sells it for three dollars back in Bulawayo."

"Why
don't they sell them themselves in Bulawayo?" Creasy asked.

"Because
the bus trip to Bulawayo could cost them a couple of dollars plus two wasted
days. Even if they could find a dealer there," Maxie told Creasy. He
turned back to the older man and asked, "Do you know anything about who
might have shot those two people?"

Twin
shields came down over the older man's eyes as he shook his head. He glanced
nervously at his brother.

"We
know nothing. The police came to our village and questioned everybody."

"We
are not the police," Maxie replied. "And whatever we learn, we will
not tell them about it."

The
African shook his head. "We know nothing. We were not in the area at that
time. The police had their own trackers and they could find nothing because
there had been a big rain in the morning, and by then the killer would have
gone."

As
Maxie translated that sentence, something clicked in Creasy's head. He reached
out and tapped Maxie's wrist and asked, "Are you sure he said killer and
not killers?"

"I'm
sure."

Creasy
looked at the fire, deep in thought, and then said, "From your experience,
how often would these two men be poaching in the bush?"

Maxie
immediately got his drift and answered, "Very frequently and only in this
specific area, because there would be several poachers in the village and all
of them would have their own patch. I know that from my days in the
Selous."

Creasy
was nodding thoughtfully.

"And
being poachers, albeit small-time, they would be on the look-out for any human
tracks, in case game rangers might be in the area."

"They
would," Maxie agreed.

Creasy
reached down and felt for the slit at the back of his belt, eased out the gold
krugerrand and tossed it across the fire between the two brothers.

They
glanced down as it lay, glittering in the firelight. Five years' work. Slowly
their gaze lifted to look at Maxie, who said, "That's to pay for our meal
and the drink."

They
looked at each other again, then it was the younger brother who spoke,
"Who sent you here?"

"The
mother of the murdered girl," Maxie answered. "She owns a million
cows." He pointed with his chin at the gold coin. "And maybe a
million of those. She wants vengeance on the man who killed her daughter."

For a
long time, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the laugh of a
distant hyena and Creasy, munching on his impala haunch as though he didn't
have a care in the world. Then, very slowly, the older brother reached down and
picked up the gold coin and tucked it into the pocket of his frayed khaki
shorts. He glanced again at his brother who gave him an almost imperceptible
nod.

He said
to Maxie, "There is a man who hunts here. He has done so for many years.
He hunts for the leopard and for cheetah. He does it for his pleasure, not for
money. We know his tracks well ... he smokes cigarettes which cost much
money."

"He
is an African?" Maxie asked.

"He
is not black," came the answer. Then he gestured to his left, down the
lake. "He comes and goes from that direction."

Maxie
translated that for Creasy and said, "He must come from Binga and, for
sure, he's a white man. This man knows more than he's saying. They are very
cautious people. If that man has been hunting leopard and cheetah for many
years here, they will have seen him. Only white men smoke expensive
cigarettes."

"Press
him," Creasy said.

Maxie
turned again to the older brother. "Have you seen this man?" he
asked.

"Look beyond Binga," the African said. "But not much beyond. Just about
five K's."

Maxie
translated that and then added, "There are very few white people living in
Binga on a permanent basis. Some missionaries, American Peace Corps workers and
doctors at the regional hospital. Five K's beyond Binga there are some
holiday cottages owned by wealthy whites out at Bulawayo. There are two or
three other white families who farm crocodiles and have Kapenta fishing
licences... We'll find our man there."

"How
long to get there?" Creasy asked.

"It's a two-day trek."

The
younger brother had passed the gourd back to Creasy. He took a swig and decided
that it was definitely an acquired taste. He passed the gourd on to Maxie,
saying, "So we leave at first light."

"My
name is N'Kuku Lovu. .. but you can call me Monday." Michael could not
keep the surprise from his face and the grey-haired African laughed and
explained. "Under the white man's rule, every black child born in Rhodesia
had to have a pronounceable English Christian name to go on to the birth
certificate together with a tribal name. I was born in the remote province of
Binga, sixty years ago, and the clerk who registered my birth did not have much
imagination. Since I was born on a Monday, I was called Monday."

Michael
smiled and remarked, "It's as good a name as any... and not one to
forget."

They
were sitting in an elegant office on the fifteenth floor of a modern building
in central Harare. Michael was dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt and
flip-flops, and was slightly cold within the air conditioning. His host wore a
perfectly cut grey, pin-striped suit with a blue shirt and a cream tie.

The
African leaned back in his chair and gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling window
across the skyline of Harare. Then slowly his eyes moved back to Michael and he
said, "I asked you to come here to receive my thanks for saving my wayward
son from at least a terrible beating and maybe even death. In many ways he is a
pride to his father, but he has a weakness for women. Perhaps he will have
learned something from what happened last night."

"Perhaps,"
Michael agreed. "It was about three years ago that I found myself in a
similar situation or worse... it was also because of a teasing woman. It sure
as hell taught me a lesson. But, Monday, the person you should really thank is
Shavi."

"I
have already done so."

A
silence developed. The African was in deep thought. When Michael had entered
the office, two minutes earlier, the African had pressed a button on his
intercom and instructed his secretary that he was not to be interrupted until
further notice. Since he was obviously a busy man, Michael assumed that, having
received his thanks, he should leave. But, as he started to rise, the African
held up a hand.

"I
should have invited you to my home so that my wife could have also thanked you,
but I thought it not a good idea that you should come to my home." He
gestured at the office around him and went on, "I must tell you also that
this is not my own office. That is in the penthouse ... I own this building ...
I have borrowed this office from a friend for this meeting."

Michael
had settled himself back into his chair. The African smiled and pointed to a
cabinet in the corner. "But I know that is a well-stocked bar. What can I
get you?"

It was
late afternoon. Michael thought for a moment and said, "A gin and tonic
would go down well."

The
African glanced at his watch, smiled and said, "I will join you with that,
but if you ever meet my wife, be sure not to mention that I've been drinking
before sundown."

As
Michael took the first sip of his drink, the African looked at him across the
rim of his own glass and stated, "They are planning to kill you."

Michael
lowered his glass and asked quietly, "Because of last night?"

The
African shook his head.

"Oh,
no, those from last night are small people with small minds and you frightened
them very much. The people who want to kill you are big people with wide minds
and much power."

"Who
are they?"

Again,
the African's brooding eyes were looking out over the skyline. Michael waited
patiently until the African had made his decision. Monday N'Kuku started to
talk about his business. He had grown up in the Zambezi Valley and had been
educated at a mission school. Both the school and his village had to be
relocated when the mighty Kariba dam had been built and Lake Kariba formed. As
a boy, he had managed to get a job on a white farm. It paid only subsistence
wages and the farmer had been brutal, and so Monday N'Kuku had formed an early
hatred for white people.

That
hatred had lasted five years until the white farmer had sold out to another
white farmer when the troubles had started. His new boss had been a totally
different human being. He had shown kindness to his black workers and they had
responded and the farm had prospered. Every white farm had a small village that
housed its workforce. The new boss had spent some of his profits in improving
that village, by installing running water and electricity. He had arranged for
his workers to be medically examined once a month. The boss's wife had started a
kindergarten, with lessons for the young children at the farm village. She
quickly discovered that Monday N'Kuku had a basic education and so, at the age
of twenty, he had been brought in from the fields to run that kindergarten. His
new boss and his wife encouraged other white farmers in the area to send the
black children of their workers to attend what soon became a small school.
Monday N'Kuku was sent to Bulawayo to study to become a real teacher. Four
years later, he had returned to the school. But he had only stayed two years.
The boss's wife had recognised his intelligence and one evening had simply told
him to go to Bulawayo to see a man called John Elliot, who owned a factory
making and selling fencing materials. John Elliot had given him a job as a very
junior clerk. During the next twenty years, Monday N'Kuku had worked hard and
risen to be sales manager of the entire company. He had also obtained a wife
and three children and a small house in an African township. Michael listened
patiently as the African described the troubles that came with Ian Smith's
declaration of Independence from Britain and the war that followed. The owner
of the factory decided to sell up and move to South Africa. Monday N'Kuku did
not like the new owners. He had saved some money and so he resigned, moved to
Harare, which was then called Salisbury and opened his own small business,
selling machinery to farmers, both black and white. The business had prospered
and as the war for black liberation intensified, Monday N'Kuku had the wisdom
to start donating money to the eventual victors. He was well rewarded and, five
years after black rule, he was one of the wealthiest black businessmen in the
country, with very powerful connections both inside and outside the government.

He finished
his story by saying, "It has been the rule all my life always to pay my
debts. It has been a good rule and I will continue to follow it. So now I have
to repay my debt to you, but in doing so I cannot compromise others. Of course,
like everybody else, I know what you are doing here and your father and his
Selous Scout friend, MacDonald, and the American lady paymaster, Mrs Manners. I
know the whole story because we are a village and I am in the centre of the
village." He smiled. "We sit in air-conditioned luxury in a
Westernised world, but the old tribal drums still beat. You are a white man...
you cannot hear them. But the drums tell me that very soon some people will try
to kill you and your whole party."