Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

squeezing harder. ‘Too soft, I reckon,’ he added, winking at Coetzee, whose whinnying laughter set Gabriel’s teeth on edge.

Feeling that here at least he could work off some of his building frustration with Coetzee, Gabriel returned the pressure. Smiling broadly, he altered his grip minutely, placing pressure on a nerve bundle he knew lay between the thumb and index finger. Wincing at the unexpected pain, the pilot hurriedly ended the shake.

‘Alec Jensen. Something the matter with your hand, Brik?’ Gabriel asked.

The pilot scowled and stumped away towards the Cessna, kicking out a couple of grapefruit-sized stones he’d used to chock the wheels.

‘I’m heading back to Jo’burg,’ Coetzee said. ‘Brik’ll take good care of you. Have a good trip, yah?’

Five minutes later, after Todd had run through his pre-flight checks, the Cessna was rumbling down the airstrip towards a stand of trees at the far end. With a hundred yards to go, Todd lifted the nose and the plane took to the air. Gabriel turned to his left and watched the ground swing beneath the port wing as Todd banked the plane to the northwest.

The greenish-brown veldt stretched to the horizon, dotted with acacias and other trees Gabriel couldn’t begin to name. A sinuous river wound north–south, glittering in the sun like a rope of diamonds on a sage-green velvet cloth.

He watched a huge herd of antelope making their way towards the river, snaking back for a couple of miles.

The Cessna’s drone made conversation impossible, which suited him fine.

The flight took four hours. By the time Todd began his descent towards the landing strip, Gabriel felt his body was vibrating in time with the beats of the Cessna’s engine.

The landing was rough but secure, and the Cessna rumbled over the ground before Todd swung it in towards a single-storey, cinder-block building. Above its white walls orange-painted steel letters were riveted to a frame:

WELKOM BY NUWE HOOP

‘Know any Afrikaans, Alec?’ Todd shouted over his shoulder.

Gabriel shook his head.

‘It means “Welcome to New Hope”. That’s the name of our town.’

With his booted feet on Mother Earth again, Gabriel looked around. Beyond the airstrip, he could just make out a cluster of buildings a mile or so distant. Their white shapes floated in the heat haze. He swatted away a fly that landed on his nose and resettled his hat, tugging the brim down to block out the sun.

Todd led him to a white pickup, its sides coated with red dust. Gabriel climbed in. Todd booted the throttle, spinning all four wheels and raising a cloud of dust before they found traction and the pickup lurched off towards New Hope.

45

NORTHERN CAPE

Todd trundled down the town’s main street, a wide, dusty, unmetalled road. No markings, traffic lights, parking meters or pedestrian crossings broke up the tyre-flattened thoroughfare as it ran, ruler-straight, from one end of the settlement to the other.

Something about the dust and the relative absence of vehicles put Gabriel in mind of the one-horse towns in the Westerns he’d been so mad about as a boy. Something itched at the back of his brain. He couldn’t reach to scratch it.

‘Hotel,’ Todd said, pointing at a single-storey building in a ranch house style. He continued pointing, first to the left, then the right. ‘Pub, general store, bodyshop, sporting goods. Yah, we have everything we need out here, man. And nothing we don’t.’

Gabriel scanned the people thronging the pavements on each side of the street. He realised what had sent his soldier’s ‘spider sense’ pinging. Everyone was white. There must have been a hundred or more people, and not a black or brown face among them.

‘Like kaffirs,’ he said.

Todd laughed, an ugly sound in the cab’s cramped confines.

‘In one. This is it, Alec. The capital city.’

‘Of?’

‘Ha! I’ll let Julius tell you,’ he said, as he swung the pickup off the main street and down a narrower track towards a fenced compound dominated by a two-storey wooden house fronted by a patch of lawn and a couple of shade trees.

Arriving at the gate, he killed the engine and got out. He looked back in at Gabriel.

‘Come on, then. This is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

Gabriel nodded and climbed out, knuckling his lower back. He reached back in for his bags and followed Todd through the gate and up to the front door.

A furious barking erupted from the side of the house and a large, tawny-coated dog bounded around the corner, coming straight for him. He knelt and let the animal skid to a stop in front of him, its blocky head pushing towards his, slack jaws slobbering as it sniffed his hairline. He offered the back of his hand, fingers curled under, and let the dog sniff, then lick his skin. Apparently satisfied he wasn’t a threat, the dog wagged its tail and trotted off, the stiff fur along its spine gradually settling into a softer peak.

‘I see you’ve met Pikko,’ a man said from above his head.

Gabriel got to his feet and turned to take in the master of the house whose guard dog he had just charmed into retreat. The master of the house, leader of the BVR and, as was looking increasingly likely, murderer of the fallen Paras and their Botswanan comrades.

Julius Witaarde’s bow-shaped mouth was smiling as he held out his right hand. Gabriel noticed a gold signet ring inset with a red seal as he took it. The Afrikaaner’s face was composed of angular planes: high cheekbones shadowing a square, clean-shaven jaw, a tall forehead grooved with lines that met in a sharp V between heavy eyebrows. Gabriel estimated his age at somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.

‘You must be Alec,’ he said, in lightly accented English. ‘Julius Witaarde at your service. Welcome to New Hope, and to my home. Please, come in.’

Glad to be out of the burning sun, Gabriel placed the daysack beneath a coat-rack in the hall. He removed his hat and hung it by the cord over one of the pegs.

Witaarde was wearing khaki shorts