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

‘Understood. When do I get the Dakota?’

Witaarde grinned.

‘In a hurry, are you?’

‘No. But I like to familiarise myself with any weapon I shoot. SOP: standard operating procedure.’

‘Yah? Well, my SOP is you get a gun when I say so and not before.’

‘Supposing we’re attacked.’

Witaarde narrowed his eyes.

‘Attacked by who?’

‘I don’t know, the Botswana Defence Force? Other poachers? Lions?’

‘You let me worry about security. These boys have seen plenty of action. If I was a lion I’d keep well clear of them. Unless I wanted to end up with my pelt on some millionaire’s den floor. As for the army, forget it. They’re cowards. After what we did to the last lot, they’ll be keeping their heads down for a good while yet.’

‘What about other poachers?’

Witaarde snorted.

‘Huh! This park is under our control. It’s all thrashed out higher up than you need to worry about.’

Gabriel shrugged.

‘Fair enough. And they’re disciplined, are they? The Congolese?’

‘Disciplined? This isn’t the British army, my friend. We don’t do fucking drill. They’re tough, ruthless and efficient. And they can shoot straight. That’s all the discipline I need from them.’

Witaarde checked his watch.

‘It’s going to get dark in a couple of hours. We need to move and Brik needs to get the bird in the air again. He’s picking us up when we’ve got what we came for.’

Witaarde went over to talk to the pilot. He tapped his watch. He must be setting up a routine for bringing him back when the hunt was over. Gabriel watched him gesturing to Ruud, who nodded, climbed into the Range Rover and roared off back towards the park entrance. Gabriel strolled over to the four Congolese poachers.

To a man, they were lean and muscular. All wore a basic uniform of camouflage shirt, trousers and boots. The headgear ranged from wide-brimmed bush hats to baseball caps and a dun-coloured bandanna. One man wore a pair of mirror-lensed Aviators. He grinned at Gabriel.

Each carried a knife in a leather sheath on his belt, plus a machete dangling from a leather or woven sling. The approach was that of his former brothers in the SAS. You chose the clothes and personal equipment you felt best met your personal needs.

Two carried Kalashnikovs, one an antiquated but serviceable-looking bolt-action rifle, one a more modern, wooden-stocked rifle Gabriel couldn’t identify at first. He pointed at it.

‘C’est jolie. Qu’est ce que c’est? It’s pretty. What is it?’

The poacher smiled.

‘C’est un Mauser M98 Magnum.’ The last word came out, Magnoom.

Gabriel nodded his appreciation.

‘Calibre?’

‘Quatre seize.’

Gabriel nodded again. A .416 round would stop a charging elephant or Cape buffalo dead in its tracks if you were accurate. If.

‘Right. Move out!’ Witaarde called out. ‘The herd’s three miles west of here.’

Gabriel watched the Congolese shouldering their gear, including a new-looking STIHL chainsaw on a faded-orange webbing sling.

After an hour’s tabbing through the park, they arrived at a long, narrow waterhole, fringed with trees and waist-high long grass.

They set up camp, although once the food and water had been consumed, Witaarde made a point of him and Gabriel moving to a spot away from the Congolese. They built a separate fire and then spread out sleeping bags.

Witaarde retrieved a bottle of whisky from his knapsack. He unscrewed the cap and took a pull before offering it to Gabriel. Gabriel accepted it, but blocked the neck with his tongue as he brought it to his mouth.

He kept Witaarde company as the man descended into slurring drunkenness, slowing his own speech down to mimic Witaarde’s. Around them, the noise of nocturnal animals built steadily, so that an hour later it was a continuous background wail, mixing every type of sound from buzzes and whines to squeals, shrieks, leopard coughs, and an unearthly hum that sounded as though someone had powered up a distant electrical generator.

Witaard tilted the whisky bottle neck at Gabriel.

‘No thanks, Julius, I’m good. I want to stay fresh for tomorrow.’

‘Yah? Gonna lose your virginity, aren’ ya? Bag a big elephan’ for me and get ’is tusks out.’

‘Do we take the bakkie?’

Witaarde rolled his eyes, and Gabriel couldn’t tell if it was in exasperation, drunkenness or both.

‘Those ears aren’t jus’ for keeping cool. They can hear real good. Engine noise spooks them.’

‘Then how come tourists manage it?’

‘Well, for one thing, they don’t get as close as we need to. An’ another thing is, this is more honest. You know? Like my granpappa used to do it.’

Reflecting that honesty was the last thing he’d have expected as a reason for poaching on foot, Gabriel shuffled a little closer to Witaarde. Witaarde’s eyes were drooping. Gabriel knew he had to be quick.

‘I know how important Volksrepubliek van Suid-Afrika is to you, Julius,’ he said softly. ‘You really care about it, don’t you?’

‘Course I care. This is my life. My fight,’ he said, punching his chest. ‘You know, Mandela had it right. You have to fight for what you believe in. I’m fighting for what I believe in.’

‘Mandela?’

‘Yeah, you know. Mandela!’

‘Mandala?’

‘What. You deaf, Englishman? I said Mandela. You know, Nelson Mandela.’

‘Ohh, Mandela. Yeah, Mandela. Mandela.’

It was easiest with drunks. As long as they were awake, the alcohol did half the work. Gabriel kept repeating the great South African’s surname, varying the stressed syllable and raising and lowering his voice in a precise sequence of tones taught to him many years ago by master Zhao.

Behind him, Gabriel could hear the Congolese singing old French songs in exquisite harmonies. Their melodic voices, so surprising given their day jobs, floated across the space between the two groups of men, adding their own sonic colours to the disruption Gabriel was causing to Witaarde’s brainwave patterns.

As he drew Witaarde’s gaze into his and moved his eyes in synchrony with his voice, Gabriel waited for the tell-tale signs that Witaarde had lost control of his own mind. They came after twenty more seconds.

Witaarde’s pupils blew. His breathing settled into a deep, glacial pace, one breath every thirty seconds. His muscle tone slackened.

And, in the flickering firelight beneath