The Pride, page 9
‘Hmm, it is thrilling.’
Platt was, she thought, almost salivating. She needed more information from him, though.
‘Tell me, does it pay well, hunting? Guiding?’
‘You are direct, aren’t you?’
‘German.’ She smiled again.
He took another drink. ‘If you get the right clients. There’s a lot happening around Vic Falls, new investment, and enough people with enough money to keep the hunting industry afloat.’
‘Chinese money?’
His eyes narrowed and she wondered if she’d pushed too hard, too fast.
‘It’s just that I see them, Chinese people, everywhere,’ she continued. Sonja looked down and slowly slid a finger into the open front of her blouse. She could tell his eyes were on her breasts. She looked up. ‘Sorry, thought I might have been bitten by a mosquito.’
‘You need to be careful of malaria,’ he said, ‘though I don’t bother with prophylaxis.’
She looked into his eyes. ‘Protection is overrated.’
‘About that smoke . . .’
Sonja grinned. ‘You’ve got a joint on you?’
‘At my house. It’s not far.’
‘Full of trophies? Animal heads?’
He shook his head. ‘I leave that sort of thing to my clients.’
Sonja pushed her drink aside. ‘Ready when you are.’
He gulped his down and looked, pointedly, at hers. ‘You’re not going to finish that?’
‘I want to get mellow, not wasted, if you know the difference.’
He nodded, not needing any more hints.
He led her along the road parallel to the railway tracks, away from Livingstone Way. There were no street lights, but the darkness didn’t worry Sonja; this was her natural environment. They passed closed curio market stalls, their merchandise covered by tarpaulins, and the N1 Hotel. It didn’t look like a residential area to Sonja.
Platt’s right hand brushed against her left, and she sensed that it wasn’t the result of a half-drunk lurch.
‘What’s a hot chick like you doing by herself in town anyway?’
‘Looking for fun.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘You said some locals are anti-hunting? I would have thought people born in Zimbabwe would be smarter than that, appreciating the income that hunting brings to rural communities, the benefits in terms of boots on the ground in deterring poaching.’
He looked at her, as if surprised she was not just a pretty face. ‘Exactly, except some of those protesting the loudest on Facebook and stirring up all that social media bullshit aren’t even born in this country.’
‘Where are they from? Europe?’
‘America, mainly. There’s this one guy, a goffal – coloured, so that might explain his lack of brains. Some half-American, half-Angolan –’
The punch to his throat, fast and hard with the pointed knuckles of her right four fingers, took the filthy words and foul wind out of Platt as he staggered and fell to the ground. In the darkness below the broken streetlight Sonja let loose.
She fell on him, smashing a fist into his nose, not because it was a particularly effective way of disabling him, but because she wanted his friends, cronies and potential conquests to see him with a flattened nose and black eyes. Her aggression was redlining, but still controlled. Even as he was finally gathering the presence of mind to remember he had a weapon, Sonja had her hand inside his jacket and was pulling it out.
Sonja kicked him in the ribs, hopefully hard enough to crack a couple, then racked the Makarov pistol. Platt groaned and writhed as she put a foot on the back of his neck.
‘It’s not nice to use racist terms.’
‘Go fuck yourself, bitch.’
She leaned over and rammed the tip of the pistol barrel into the back of his skull.
‘Tell me about the Chinese guy.’
‘Fuck off, coon lover. You’re not going to shoot me here in the street. Fucking white trash pussy.’ She stood straight, took aim and fired a shot into his right calf.
Platt bellowed and tried to reach for his leg. ‘What the fuck?’
Sonja lowered herself down again so her knee was on his back. ‘Apologise.’
‘I’m sorry, OK. Ow, that fucking hurts. I need a doctor.’
‘The Chinese guy.’
Sonja looked around. A dog had started barking, probably from the noise of the gunshot, but no one else seemed to be stirring and there were definitely no houses this close to the railway line. With the number of elephants and baboons that passed through Victoria Falls from the nearby Zambezi National Park it probably wasn’t unusual for the odd warning shot to be fired.
Sonja put her foot on Platt’s bleeding leg. The wound was superficial, but he yelped again.
‘Enough!’
‘Tell me.’
‘He’s a client. His name’s Carrington Wu. He likes to hunt and I do some business with him, that’s all.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘Get off my fucking leg.’
She increased the pressure.
Platt gasped. ‘He needed a Zimbabwean citizen to set up a company, import–export, so he paid me to be one of his directors and to take care of . . . administration and logistics stuff for him around Victoria Falls.’
Sonja scoffed. ‘Yes, you sure do seem like the admin and logistics type. Why did he really pick you?’
‘He likes to hunt, OK? I’m good at my job, I get him whatever game he wants and he looks after me in return.’
‘Sure, by illegally luring lions out of the national park into the hunting areas. People like you are sick, and give hunting a bad name.’
‘That’s all bullshit, made up by that coloured –’
She leaned on his leg again, prompting another scream but shutting him up. ‘What kind of import–export?’
‘Stuff to Asia. For God’s sake, get me a doctor, woman. I’m going to bleed out if I don’t get my bloody leg seen to.’
Sonja glanced down at the wound. ‘I’ve done worse than that shaving my legs. Grow a set of balls, man. More information.’
He sniffed.
Sonja took out her phone and selected the video function on the camera and held it to his face.
‘What are you doing?’ Platt whimpered.
‘I’m going to film the big tough hunter crying like a little baby.’
He stifled a sob. ‘Wu’s in the abalone trade. It’s legal, in case you’re wondering, and in return he imports medical supplies into Zimbabwe.’
‘I don’t see any rocky ocean shores around here, do you, Platt? How does the abalone get here?’
‘I told you, it’s all legal.’ He sniffed again, tears staining his cheeks. She moved the phone closer to him and took a picture, then put the camera back in her pocket. She knew he might clam up if he really thought he was being videoed.
‘Do you want me to shoot the other leg?’
He flailed a hand out, as if that would stop a bullet. ‘I should let you kill me. If I tell you more I’m going to die anyway.’
‘Road or air?’
He turned his head sideways and licked his lips, like a snake sniffing the air with its tongue. He watched her take aim again. ‘Road.’
‘Where? When?’
‘The stuff comes up from South Africa, via Botswana, then the drivers take a right at Pandamatenga and cross into Zimbabwe there. Technically, that border crossing isn’t supposed to be used for freight or heavy trucks, it’s just a gravel road through the bush, a track in places, but he uses tourist trucks, so the border officials let them through.’
Sonja nodded. It was a clever strategy; Pandamatenga was about a hundred kilometres south of Kazungula, the much busier crossing between Botswana and Zambia, where a random search by customs officer was more likely. ‘Now, when’s the next shipment due?’
‘For God’s sake, woman, if he finds out . . .’
‘He won’t, trust me,’ Sonja said. Once someone had started spilling the beans in an interrogation, she knew, it was almost impossible for them to stop. One just had to be patient. ‘I’ve got some painkillers with me. I’ll bandage you before I go. You’ll have a lekker scar to show your next conquest.’
‘Tomorrow. They’ll probably cross the border as soon as it opens, after eight in the morning.’
‘What type of vehicle?’ Sonja asked.
‘A Hino truck, converted into an overland tour bus.’
‘Company name?’ Sonja asked. ‘Any branding?’
Platt sighed. ‘Flame of Zimbabwe tours.’
‘What happens to it after it gets here?’
He shook his head, as if ashamed of himself. ‘It’s transferred to a locally registered commercial lorry, trucked to Harare, and flown out from there, usually to Hong Kong, but also Shanghai.’
‘Who’s Wu’s contact in Cape Town? Who does he get the abalone from?’
‘As if I’d know?’ Platt whined.
Sonja put the top of the barrel of the pistol against the back of his good leg and Platt squirmed.
‘A coloured dude from Cape Town flew up to go on a hunt. The oke had money, dressed well. They were talking business, about shipments and what-what-what, but didn’t say much in front of me. I saw him on DSTV, on the news from South Africa a couple of weeks ago; he’s like running for parliament or something.’
‘Name?’ Sonja said.
‘Hendricks. Victor, or Vincent, something like that. Please . . .’
Fuck, Sonja mouthed silently. She composed herself. ‘OK. Anything else I need to know about Wu?’
He sneered up at her. ‘Take him on, I dare you. He’s a martial arts master and a killer. They say he was responsible for the cleansing of those ethnic Muslims in China. You think you’re tough, lady, but he’ll fucking cut your liver out and take a bite out of it. Just you try.’
Sonja heard a police siren and back towards Livingstone Way she could see a blue light coming from up the hill. She grabbed one of Platt’s wrists and pulled it up behind his back, causing him to yelp again, then secured his hands together with one of the cable ties she’d taken from the Land Cruiser’s toolbox.
She knelt down, lowering her mouth to his ear. ‘I’m not going to hear from you again, and nor is anyone I know, am I, Allan?’
He swallowed hard. ‘I’ll –’
‘You’ve got plenty of bullets left in this little Russian peashooter, but only two legs, Allan.’
‘No, all right, you won’t hear from me.’
‘And you’ll withdraw your statement against Hudson Brand, won’t you?’ She put the gun back to the rear of his head, pushing hard enough to drive his face into the concrete.
‘OK, yes. I will.’
‘Good. Otherwise, Wu will hear who snitched on him.’ Sonja frisked Platt, quickly, and found a spare magazine of ammunition in his jacket. She took it and put it in her pants pocket. The siren was getting louder. She stood and started to move deeper into the shadows, along the railway line, away from town. When she looked back, she saw that Platt was starting to get up.
She took aim, and fired a single shot.
Chapter 8
‘I’m worried about Mum,’ Emma said as she took a bite from her omelette. She and Hudson sat on the long, wide verandah of the dining and lounge area at Nantwich Lodge, shaded by the overhang of the thatch roof.
He was eating muesli and yoghurt and Enoch, the chef, brought another plunger of coffee to the table. ‘Thank you, Enoch.’
‘Sure,’ Enoch said.
Hudson poured for both of them. ‘How come? You know it’s not unusual for her to go off-reservation.’
Neither of them had seen Sonja since she’d left them at Hwange Police Station the previous afternoon. Hudson had, as Goodness Khumalo promised, been bailed thanks to Sonja’s cash, but they did have to wait for the magistrate to finish his round of golf, plus drinks at the clubhouse. It had been nearly 10 pm by the time they made it back to Hwange National Park.
A herd of roan antelope, handsome, sandy-coloured creatures with clownish black and white faces, walked cautiously down to the dam to drink. Blue waxbills, tiny, beautiful birds, drank from the waterhole just on the other side of the lawn in front of the stoep.
‘No, I’m more worried about her mental health,’ Emma said.
Hudson set his cup down. ‘Like we were saying the other day, this is all most likely a side effect from her post-traumatic stress.’
Emma nodded. ‘Sure, but she’s acting screwy, even for her. Hudson, I think it’s more than that.’
‘I’m not sure that screwy is a recognised term in psychology, but tell me what’s wrong, Emma.’
‘She went apeshit about what happened with the guy at Silver Sands.’
Hudson pursed his lips. ‘You know, kiddo, if I’d been there I would have gone after the guy as well.’
‘Would you have shot him in the head?’
‘Emma, I’m sure your mom didn’t execute the guy.’
Emma pursed her lips. ‘She took her gun when she went out looking for him.’
‘Sonja always has a weapon.’
‘I know, but she had those crazy eyes the next morning. You know what I mean?’ Emma said.
He frowned, but did not say no.
‘That’s why we left in a hurry. I found the guy, Hudson, the one who attacked me. I was with his cousin and we came across him on the beach, with a bullet in the back of his head. Mafia style.’
Hudson sat back in his chair and exhaled. ‘Emma, your mom is one tough woman, we both know that, and she has her issues, but one thing she is not is a cold-blooded murderer.’
It was Emma’s turn not to answer. She understood how protective her mother was, and that Sonja had no doubt set out to find Denzel and give him an arse-kicking – that would be classic Sonja. However, what else had gone on? Kelvin had pointed out that Denzel had also been wounded in the leg – a knife cut or stab wound – so there had been a fight of some kind. However, that didn’t explain how Denzel had ended up being shot in the back of his head.
Had Sonja finally snapped?
Her mother had been at war, or in war zones and low-intensity conflicts, for as long as Emma had been alive. She’d served in Northern Ireland with the British Army, then, later, as a mercenary in Sierra Leone, Iraq and Afghanistan. She’d also been part of a failed uprising against the government of Namibia, leading a force of separatist rebels opposed to the construction of a dam, and had been involved in anti-poaching operations from South Africa to Tanzania. In addition, Emma knew her mother had been contracted on several occasions by the US Government to do jobs that she would not talk about.
All of that, Emma knew, had taken a toll on her mother, physically, mentally and emotionally. Sonja struggled to connect with people, or form lasting relationships; she had seen friends – lovers – killed in action. And while Emma was sure her mother loved her, and would probably die for her, Sonja had missed most of her daughter’s childhood, entrusting her to Emma’s English grandmother; and that had hurt. Emma sometimes wondered if there was more to her mother’s problems, something deep-rooted that she couldn’t tell Emma, something that maybe she’d even suppressed in her conscious mind. Sonja had gone through a rough childhood; Emma’s Namibian-German grandfather, Hans, had been an alcoholic and had beaten Sonja and Emma’s grandmother, but Hans had found God later in life and tried to make amends before dying. Emma knew other soldiers who had seen and done the things that Sonja had, but who had managed to lead relatively normal family lives. Whatever the reason, Sonja struggled with people.
The relationship between Sonja and her own mother had been difficult, as well. When Emma’s grandmother had left her grandfather, Sonja had rebelled against her mother and decided to stay on with Hans, who was working as a maintenance manager at a safari lodge in Botswana. It was only when Hans had hit Sonja that she finally left him. Emma didn’t know for sure, but she felt that her grandmother had never forgiven Sonja for not coming with her to England in the first place.
Emma sometimes wished she could just have a regular, normal relationship with her mother, where they could go on a relaxing holiday together and nothing eventful would happen. Even with what had transpired at Silver Sands, if Sonja had not killed Denzel then she could have just stayed and let the police handle it. Emma imagined it would have been a simple matter of checking the ballistics of the bullet that killed Denzel with Sonja’s pistol, which she was licensed to own. Sonja had run, which was not like her – unless she was guilty of killing Denzel in cold blood.
‘What are you thinking, kiddo?’ Hudson asked.
‘How screwed up my family is – what little there is of it.’
He smiled. ‘Every family is screwed up, Emma, in its own way. That’s because families are made up of people.’
‘I know she’s human, trust me,’ Emma said. ‘But that doesn’t give her an excuse to go around killing people.’
‘Have you had any word from her?’ Hudson asked.
Emma checked her phone, which was connected to the lodge’s satellite wi-fi internet.
‘Nothing.’
*
Sonja lay in the meagre shade of a mopane tree, atop a small rise cluttered with granite rocks and small boulders, about thirty kilometres northwest of Nantwich Lodge. Platt was Carrington Wu’s lackey and it was time for her to exact a little payback on the man she was sure had masterminded Hudson’s framing.
Given what had gone down on the beach, it was also karma, she thought, in a non-Buddhist way, that Wu was tied to Denzel’s father, Vincent Hendricks, via the illegal abalone trade. She now had an excellent opportunity to fuck them both over and disrupt a poaching operation. Sam would have been proud, which pleased her. Also, one more day alone in the bush was one less day she would have to endure of Hudson and Emma asking what was really wrong with her.
