The Protector, page 21
She heard a sharp intake of breath, almost like a sob. The voice was softer, less strident when it replied. ‘I should not have called you.’
‘You did the right thing, the honourable thing, Oscar . . . Mdluli.’
‘Please! No.’
‘I know where you are, at the anti-poaching rangers’ camp here on Balule. I know that your brother, Warrant Officer Thomas Mdluli, is currently investigating Graham’s death. I understand your fear, Oscar, but right now I’m the only chance you have to stay out of prison.’ She was winging it, but he was still on the line.
‘No.’
‘Yes. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
Chapter 17
Doc reported to the lounge area for their last game drive at Antares. Margaux was waiting for her.
‘Good afternoon, Doc,’ Margaux said. ‘I’m sorry, but Sara called me just now and said she can’t make this afternoon’s drive and that we should go without her.’
Doc went to the coffee urn and poured herself a cup. ‘That’s odd. We’re going to track Geoff’s pangolin and she was very keen to get some footage for her documentary.’
Margaux shrugged. ‘Sara said she wasn’t feeling too well, but that she was sure she’d get over it with a short rest.’
Doc frowned. That was very unlike Sara. Not only did she often boast that she never got sick – she had not even had COVID – but she’d also told Doc that when she was on a job nothing stopped her – not the weather, not sickness, nor fatigue. Either she was sicker than she made out, in which case Doc thought Sara would probably have come to her herself, or she was up to something.
‘No one makes an award-winning documentary by sticking to the rules,’ was another truism Sara had let slip after too many Jägerbombs one night. ‘Except your rules, of course, Doc.’
Pär and Eva were sitting on a sofa, drinking tea and eating cake. They waved to Doc to join them.
‘Hi Doc, sorry I’m late.’ Ian walked in quickly. ‘Have I got time for an iced coffee?’
‘Of course,’ Doc said.
Eva looked over her shoulder and held up her watch hand. ‘Drink fast, Ian.’
Eva laughed, but Doc could tell that for her this was no joking matter. She and Pär had paid to see pangolins, and they were getting impatient. Doc wanted to tell them that they would see plenty of the rare creatures where they were going, but thought it would do little good.
Ian’s arrival allowed Doc to linger next to him at the drinks station. ‘Let me pour for you,’ she said.
‘Thanks. I fell asleep,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it was possible – I’ve been so stoked so far with everything I’ve seen, but I lay down on the bed to close my eyes for five minutes and crashed.’
‘It happens.’ She poured him iced coffee from a jug. ‘Not just the jetlag, but game viewing can produce sensory overload.’
He nodded his thanks and took the glass. ‘I hear you. I was dreaming I was seeing lions and leopards last night and that we also saw cheetahs, even though I’ve never seen one in the wild.’ He laughed.
‘We’ll see what we can do about that,’ Margaux said.
Doc sipped her coffee then lowered her voice. ‘And Geoff better be able to find his pangolin or else Eva might feed me to a leopard.’
‘Is Sara not coming with us?’ Ian asked, looking around.
‘She’s not feeling well,’ Margaux said, ‘so she’s sitting this drive out.’
‘Funny,’ Ian said.
Doc looked to him. ‘How so?’
‘I just saw her out walking with her camera bag slung over her shoulder, and her tripod. Looked to me like she was going to do some filming.’
‘Walking where?’ Doc asked. She felt vindicated for doubting Sara was ill.
‘That way,’ Ian pointed away from the lodge, towards the access road they had driven down to reach the camp, ‘and off on a path or dirt road that says Staff only. I haven’t got her in trouble, have I?’
Doc shook her head. ‘No, not at all.’ Sara was perfectly capable of getting herself into trouble, though. Doc was conflicted. She couldn’t leave the group.
Moses Khumalo and Zola walked into the lounge.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Zola said.
‘We’re the guests here, Zola,’ Moses said to her as he strolled to the kitchen counter on which afternoon tea had been laid out. ‘People move around our timings. Not the other way around.’
Doc shook her head. How was she ever going to control this bunch?
*
Sweat pricked at Sara’s underarms and she brushed tiny flies away from her nose and eyes. She’d been to the anti-poaching camp once before, to get some vision of the reserve’s tracker dogs and their handlers doing some training, but that had been on a vehicle.
Technically, she should not have been walking through the bush away from the lodge’s main area, but she hadn’t wanted to draw attention to what she was doing. She paused to hitch her heavy camera bag up on her shoulder.
As a medic in Afghanistan, she had carried her heavy backpack and her HK416 rifle in extreme heat and cold, so she was no lightweight, but the tripod was awkward and dug into her other shoulder.
Sara reckoned the camp was no further than a kilometre away, and she had seen rangers using the road she was on to come and go from the main camp. Occasionally, game viewers also came this way, if an interesting animal was spotted between the lodge and the anti-poaching outpost. But there would be hell to pay from Margaux and the lodge manager if they caught her out here walking.
There was a rustle in the long golden grass to her right. Sara froze. She held her breath, knowing that if it was a lion or a leopard, then the worst thing she could do was run. She gave a start as a slender mongoose, its long tail curled like a horizontal question mark, darted from the foliage and ran across the road three metres in front of her.
Sara breathed again. Sometimes it was the smallest creatures, like this little predator or a scrub robin fossicking for bugs in the leaf litter on the ground, that made the most noise. An elephant, by contrast, moved almost silently through the bush on its big spongy feet. She licked her lips, adjusted her gear again and continued walking.
And what of Oscar? Would he be at the camp when she arrived, or would he have fled, away from his comrades and his family? She had to see him now, and, hopefully, persuade him to let her record his story on camera. She hadn’t warned him about that, but she would present it as part of her demands when she saw him. If there was some kind of conspiracy at play, as Oscar had hinted, then it might be something she could weave into her documentary. She could promise to pixelate Oscar’s face, and even alter his voice in order to convince him to let her press record on her camera. If he was adamant that he would not be filmed then she had a small GoPro camera rigged up in her bag, to film him in secret, through a tiny hole. That was not strictly ethical, but she would be far from the first documentary maker or cameraperson to use that trick.
Sara was not trained as a field guide, but she had picked up a good deal from the experienced trackers and rangers she had worked with on Stayhome Safari. While walking in the bush at night was extremely hazardous, she was working on the theory that lions and other predators would avoid humans where possible during daylight hours. In the back of her mind, though, was the memory of Doc admonishing Geoff, telling him how even experienced rangers didn’t walk in Big Five country without a rifle. She quickened her step.
Her biggest fear was encountering a cranky old solitary male buffalo, or perhaps an elephant bull in musth. Elephants in season could get irritable and aggressive, but she was sure she would smell the pungent excretions the bulls produced at that time from some distance away. The more she thought about the possible risks, the more she started to worry herself.
Then Sara heard a noise again. She stopped.
Standing in the middle of the rough dirt road she cocked her head and opened her mouth – a trick she had learned to improve her hearing. She heard the sound of a twig breaking, behind her. Sara turned. She saw nothing. Perhaps it had been her imagination.
Above the background hum of cicadas she heard a cape dove coo: work harder, work harder. From the direction of the Antares camp came the growl of an engine – the afternoon game drive going out. Although she would be in trouble, she half wished she would see the green bulk of the Land Rover trundling down the track.
Sara started walking again, ears attuned to the slightest sound. She heard something swishing, like legs brushing grass. Again, she stopped, and once more, the noise did too.
She licked her lips. ‘Hello?’
There was no answer, and no noise. Somewhere a baboon cried wah-hoo, its two-part alarm call. That could mean leopard, or lion, or even a snake. Now she was scaring herself half to death.
Sara set off once more, walking as fast as she could with her bulky equipment and avoiding the urge to break into a full-blown run. From the bush behind and to her right, through the screen of khaki and muted greens, she heard the sound of someone keeping pace with her. Maybe it was a baboon, shadowing her, hoping she might be carrying food? They stole continually from the kitchen and dining area, faster than the staff could set out sugar and condiments or clear away dirty plates.
No. This was bigger. She looked over her shoulder as she strode and her heart pounded as she saw the dark flash of something moving between the trees, almost parallel with her.
‘Who’s there?’ she called.
Sara came to a bend in the road and prayed the safety of the anti-poaching camp would be in sight. She glanced back, but saw nothing and, thankfully, heard nothing. Perhaps she had imagined it all.
When she looked to her front once more, she almost collided with a man in a green uniform. He had an LM5 assault rifle gripped in two hands and he pointed the barrel at her.
Heart pounding, Sara put her hands up, palms facing him. ‘Don’t shoot!’
The man craned his neck slightly, as if to look past her. ‘I waited for you, in the bush, then followed you, to make sure you were alone, as you promised.’
She stared at him and recognised his voice first, then his face. ‘You’re Oscar. We only met once. At Khaya Ngala.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, with . . .’
Sara saw that he couldn’t say Graham’s name, and though he kept his eyes on her, his frown told her he wanted to hang his head in shame. ‘You’re not going to kill me, are you, Oscar?’
He shook his head, then took a breath, squaring himself up a little. ‘Not if you stick to your part of the bargain. What’s in the bags? Do you have a gun?’
‘A gun? No, not at all. It’s my . . . work things.’
‘You are a camera operator; I remember from Khaya Ngala.’ He opened his mouth wide as it dawned on him. ‘You are not going to film me.’
‘Oscar, listen to me. Can I put my hands down?’ He nodded and lowered his rifle a little. ‘Oscar, we need to get your story on video, as it is evidence. The police will do the same if you talk to them. You need to tell me what happened, how this all came about. Am I right in thinking that you did not act alone?’
He glanced at the ground, then quickly back up at her, as if he was worried she was going to make a move to overpower him. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Why not, Oscar? Are you a poacher?’
He drilled her with his eyes. ‘No.’
‘All right, all right. Are you scared?’
‘I am an anti-poaching ranger. I have faced down men with AK-47s. I am not scared of a . . .’ He caught himself. ‘I am not scared.’
‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk,’ Sara said, hoping he would lower the rifle completely.
Oscar shook his head. ‘I don’t want to be seen with you in the anti-poaching camp. People are asking enough questions as it is, after the death of . . . of Graham.’
‘Where can we talk?’
He looked around them. ‘Here, in the bush. Come with me.’ He looked over his shoulder as he set off. ‘No filming.’
‘OK.’ With Oscar’s back to her, Sara reached into her camera bag and pressed the record button on her hidden camera. She took her iPhone from her pocket, selected the voice memo app, and started recording with that as well.
Sara followed Oscar deeper into the bush, away from the track that led to the anti-poaching camp. She felt a little nervous, wondering if he might not be the innocent he pretended to be, and if he was taking her to some remote place to kill her. She wished, now, that she had told Doc what she was doing.
They came to a bend in a dry river. Sara told herself that if she had to make a run for it she could at least find her way back to camp. There would be little chance, however, of outrunning the rifle in Oscar’s hands, or Oscar himself. Like the late Graham he looked to be superbly fit from his life of patrolling in the outdoors.
Oscar stopped under an impressively large jackalberry tree, whose long, black-barked branches hung over the riverbed. He set his rifle down – an encouraging gesture – and sat on a thick, exposed tree root. Sara took her cue from him and sat down cross-legged on the ground, discreetly pointing the tiny opening in her camera bag towards Oscar.
‘Can we talk now?’ she said.
He drew a deep breath, but nodded.
‘What was the plan with the pangolin?’ Sara asked.
He looked up at the tree, or the sky, closed his eyes, then lowered his face again. He opened his lids and stared at her. ‘The pangolin was never going to be harmed.’
‘Then why take it?’
Oscar shrugged. ‘I do not know, exactly.’
This was confusing. ‘Oscar, tell me from the start how you got involved in this, and what happened.’
‘All I was going to tell you was the make of the bakkie that the person who shot Graham was driving. It was a white Toyota HiLux. There, I have told you.’
It was one of the most common makes and colours of vehicles in South Africa. But Oscar was still sitting there, on his tree root, giving no signal that he was ready to move, or was about to storm off.
‘You can tell the police that,’ he continued, when Sara kept her silence.
After a few moments longer she framed her question. ‘Why did you do it? Money?’
He looked taken aback. ‘Who said anything about money?’
Sara spread her hands wide. ‘Times are tough, Oscar, and I know you would only take money if you were sure that an animal was not going to be harmed. What was this, some sort of prank? A practical joke?’
He licked his lips. ‘I wondered if that was the case.’
‘How did it happen? How did he . . . she . . . contact you?’
‘He,’ Oscar said. ‘It was a man. I received a call on my phone, last Wednesday. It was from a blocked number. He said: “I will give you 10,000 rand if you take a pangolin from the bush, hide it somewhere for two days, then return it to a different location in the wild.”’
Sara blinked. It was a bizarre request. ‘What did you think?’
‘Like you say, at first I thought it was a joke. I told the person to stop being silly, and to go away. He told me to check my bank account. I told him he must wait, and then I used the banking app and found that someone had just deposited 1,000 rand. The man said there would be another four once I sent him a picture from my phone of the pangolin, and then the rest, another 5,000, once I sent a picture of the pangolin without its tracking device, in a new location.’
‘What’s that about a tracking device?’
‘The man knew about the research program,’ Oscar said. ‘He wanted me to take a specific pangolin, not just any one I came across. He told me I must carefully remove the tracker when I found one of the monitored pangolins, and leave it in the bush where the animal was. He assured me, again, that the animal was not to be harmed, and I must just take care of it for a couple of days.’
‘Did you ask the man why?’
Oscar nodded. ‘He said it was none of my business. He just needed someone who could find the pangolin and make it disappear for a couple of days – he said it was the one that had been tagged and whose burrow was on the edge of the Zebra Vlei.’
‘So, he knew the reserve, and the location of the tagged pangolins,’ Sara said.
‘Yes.’
‘And so you took the money.’ She did her best not to make the comment sound accusatory, but Oscar bridled.
‘I have a sick child with special needs. My wife and I cannot afford medical aid and the public hospital is . . . well, you have probably seen them.’
She nodded. ‘I’m not here to judge you, Oscar, only to help you.’
‘I thought that this was someone playing games with someone else, hiding one of the animals being researched. I told myself I was not committing a crime, just moving an animal from one part of the reserve to another.’ He hung his head.
‘Why did you decide to tell Graham?’
Oscar shook his head. ‘I wish I hadn’t.’
‘Yes, but why?’
He looked up at her again, and she could see that his eyes were red-rimmed. ‘Because I knew, inside,’ he tapped his heart, ‘that this was wrong. I called Graham and told him what had happened. He was at that party in Hoedspruit.’
She nodded. ‘I was there.’
‘He told me to meet him, by the side of the road, just outside of town. I collected the pangolin – I had been keeping it safe near here, in a box in the bush – but when I was on my way, the man who had told me to take the pangolin called me again.’ He screwed his eyes shut.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘He told me that there had been a change of plans, that I must bring the pangolin to him, also in Hoedspruit. I told this man to fokof. I told him he could have his money back, and that my colleague and I would find him and arrest him.’ Oscar put his head in his hands. ‘I did the wrong thing.’
