The Leopard Hunts in Darkness Page 26

  ‘Of course, how stupid of me.’

  Swiftly Craig checked the curved ‘banana’ magazine and then reloaded the chamber. The weapon was new and well cared for. The weight of it in Craig’s hands changed his whole personality. Minutes before, he had been mere flotsam on the stream, swept along by events over which he had no control, confused and uncertain and afraid – but now he was armed. Now he could fight back, now he could protect his woman and himself, now he could shape events rather than be shaped by them. It was the primeval, atavistic instinct of primitive man, and Craig revelled in it. He reached over the seat and took Sally-Anne’s hand. He squeezed it briefly, and fervently she returned the pressure.

  ‘Now we have a fighting chance, at least.’ The new tone of his voice reached her. Her spirits lifted a little, and she gave him the first smile he had seen that night. He freed his hand, found the bottle of cane spirit in the cubbyhole, and passed it to her. After she had drunk, he gave it to Timon Nbebi.

  ‘All right, Captain, what the hell is going on here?’

  Timon gasped at the sting of the liquor and his voice was roughened by it as he replied.

  ‘You were perfectly correct, Mr Mellow, my orders from General Fungabera were to take you and Miss Jay into the bush and execute you. And you were also correct in guessing that your disappearance would be blamed on the Matabele dissidents.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you obey your orders?’

  Before replying, Timon handed the bottle back to Craig, and then glanced over his shoulder at Sally-Anne.

  ‘I am sorry that I had to go through the preparations for your execution, without being able to reassure you, but my men speak English. I had to make it look real. It galled me, for I didn’t want to inflict more on you, after what you have already suffered.’

  ‘Captain Nbebi, I forgive you everything and I love you for what you are doing, but why, in God’s name, are you doing it?’ Sally-Anne demanded.

  ‘What I am about to tell you, I have never told a living soul before. You see, my mother was a full-blooded Matabele. She died when I was very young, but I remember her well and honour that memory.’ He did not look at them, but concentrated on the track ahead. ‘I was raised as a Shona by my father, but I have always been aware of my Matabele blood. They are my people, and I can no longer stomach what is being done to them. I am certain that General Fungabera has become aware of my feelings, though I doubt that he knows about my mother, but he knows that I have reached the end of my usefulness to him. Recently there have been small signs of it. I have lived too close to the man-eating leopard for too long not to know its moods. After I had buried you, there would have been something for me also, an unmarked grave – or Fungabera’s puppies.’

  Timon used the Sindebele, amawundhla ka Fungabera, and Craig was startled. Sarah Nyoni, the schoolteacher at Tuti Mission, had used the same phrase.

  ‘I have heard that expression before – I do not understand it.’

  ‘Hyena,’ Timon explained. ‘Those who die or are executed at the rehabilitation centres are taken into the bush and laid out for the hyena. The hyena leaves nothing, not a chip of bone nor a tuft of hair.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Sally-Anne in a small voice. ‘We were at Tuti. We heard the brutes, but didn’t understand. How many have gone that way?’

  Timon Nbebi said, ‘I can only guess – many thousands.’

  ‘It’s scarcely believable.’

  ‘General Fungabera’s hatred for the Matabele is a kind of madness, an obsession. He is planning to wipe them out. First it was their leaders, accused of treason – falsely accused, like Tungata Zebiwe—’

  ‘Oh no!’ Sally-Anne said miserably. ‘I can’t bear it – was Zebiwe innocent?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jay,’ Timon Nbebi confirmed it. ‘Fungabera had to be very careful when he tackled Zebiwe. He knew if he seized him for his political activities, he would have the entire Matabele tribe in revolt. You and Mr Mellow provided him with the perfect opportunity – a non-political crime. A crime of greed.’

  ‘I’m being stupid,’ said Sally-Anne. ‘If Zebiwe wasn’t the master poacher, was there ever a poacher? And if there was – who was it?’

  ‘General Fungabera himself,’ said Timon Nbebi simply.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Craig was incredulous.

  ‘I was personally in charge of many of the shipments of animal contraband that left the country.’

  ‘But that night on the Karoi road?’

  ‘That was easily arranged. The general knew that sooner or later Zebiwe would be going to Tuti Mission again. Zebiwe’s secretary informed us of the exact time and date. We arranged for the truck loaded with contraband, driven by a Matabele detainee we had bribed, to be waiting for him on the Tuti road. Of course, we had not anticipated Tungata Zebiwe’s violent reaction – that was merely a bonus for us.’

  Timon drove as fast as the track would allow, while Sally-Anne and Craig hunched down in their seats, their artificial elation at their escape rapidly giving way to fatigue and shock.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ Craig asked.

  ‘Botswana border.’

  That was the landlocked state to the south and west which had become an established staging post for political fugitives from its neighbours.

  ‘On our way I hope you will have a chance to see what is really happening to my people. No one else will bear witness. General Fungabera has sealed off the whole of south-western Matabeleland. No journalists are allowed in, no clergymen, no Red Cross—’

  He slowed for an area where ant bears had dug their holes in the track, burrowing for the nests of termites, and then he accelerated again.

  ‘The pass I have from General Fungabera will take us a little further, but not as far as the border. We will have to use side roads and back roads until we can find a crossing place. Very soon General Fungabera will learn of my defection, and we will be hunted by the whole of the Third Brigade. We must make as much distance as we can before that happens.’

  They reached the main fork in the track and Timon stopped, but kept the motor running. He took a large-scale map from his leather map-case and studied it attentively.

  ‘We are just south of the railway line. This is the road to Empandeni Mission Station. If we can get through there before the alarm goes out for us, then we can try for the border between Madaba and Matsumi. The Botswana police run a regular patrol along the fence.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it.’ Craig was impatient and becoming fearful, the comfort of the weapon across his lap beginning to fade. Timon folded the map and drove on.

  ‘Can I ask you some more questions?’ Sally-Anne spoke after a few minutes.

  ‘I will try to answer,’ Timon agreed.

  ‘The murder of the Goodwins, and the other white families in Matabeteland – were those atrocities ordered by Tungata Zebiwe? Is he responsible for those gruesome murders?’

  ‘No, no, Miss Jay. Zebiwe has been trying desperately to control those killers. I believe that he was on his way to Tuti Mission for just such a reason – to meet with the radical Matabele elements and try to reason with them.’

  ‘But the writing in blood, “Tungata Zebiwe Lives”?’

  Now Timon Nbebi was silent, his face contorted as though he fought some inner battle, and they waited for him to speak. At last he sighed explosively, and his voice had changed.

  ‘Miss Jay, please try to understand my position, before you judge me for what I am about to tell you. General Fungabera is a persuasive man. I was carried along by his promises of glory and reward. Then suddenly I had gone too far and I was not able to turn back. I think the English expression is “riding the tiger”. I was forced to move on from one bad deed to another even worse.’ He paused, and then, in a rush, ‘Miss Jay, I personally recruited the killers of the Goodwin family from the rehabilitation centre. I told them where to go, what to do – and what to write on the wall. I supplied their weapons, and arranged for them to be driven to the area in transport of t
he Third Brigade.’

  There was silence again, broken only by the throb of the Land-Rover engine, and Timon Nbebi had to break it, speaking as though words were an opiate for his guilt.

  ‘They were Matabele, veterans, war-hard men, men who would do anything for the return of their personal liberty, the chance to carry weapons again. They did not hesitate.’

  ‘And Fungabera ordered it?’ Craig asked.

  ‘Of course. It was his excuse to begin the purge of the Matabele. Now perhaps you understand why I am fleeing with you. I could not continue along this path.’

  ‘The other murders – the killing of Senator Savage and his family?’ Sally-Anne asked.

  ‘General Fungabera did not have to order those,’ Timon shook his head. ‘Those were copy-cat murders. The bush is still full of wild men from the war. They hide their weapons and come into the towns, some even have regular jobs, but at the weekend or on a public holiday, they return to the bush, dig up their rifles and go on the rampage. They are not political dissidents, they are armed bandits and the white families are the juiciest, softest targets, rich and helpless, deprived of their weapons by Mugabe’s government so they cannot defend themselves.’

  ‘And it all plays right into Peter Fungabera’s hands. Any bandit is labelled a political dissident, any grisly robbery an excuse to continue the purge, held up to the world as proof of the savagery and intractability of the Matabele tribe,’ Craig continued for him.

  ‘That is correct, Mr Mellow.’

  ‘And he has already murdered Tungata Zebiwe—’ Craig felt old and tired with regret and guilt for his old comrade ‘– you can be sure of that!’

  ‘No, Mr Mellow.’ Timon shook his head. ‘I do not believe that Zebiwe is dead. I believe General Fungabera wants him alive. He has some plans for him.’

  ‘What plans?’ Craig demanded.

  ‘I do not know for certain, but I believe Peter Fungabera is dealing with the Russians.’

  ‘The Russians?’ Craig showed his disbelief.

  ‘He has had secret meetings with a stranger, a foreigner, a man who I believe is an important member of Russian intelligence.’

  ‘Are you sure, Timon?’

  ‘I have seen the man with my own eyes.’

  Craig thought about that for a few seconds, and then reverted to his original question.

  ‘Okay, leave the Russians for the moment – where is Tungata Zebiwe? Where is Fungabera holding him?’

  ‘Again, I do not know, I’m sorry, Mr Mellow.’

  ‘If he is alive, then may the Lord have mercy on his soul,’ Craig whispered.

  He could imagine what Tungata must be suffering. He was silent for a few minutes and then he changed the line of questioning.

  ‘General Fungabera has seized my property for himself, not for the state? I am correct in believing that?’

  ‘The general wanted that land very badly. He spoke of it often.’

  ‘How? I mean, even quasi-legally, how will he work it?’

  ‘It is very simple,’ Timon explained. ‘You are an admitted enemy of the state. Your property is forfeited. It will be confiscated to the state. The Land Bank will repudiate the suretyship for your loan under the release clause which you signed. The custodian of enemy property will put up your shares of Rholands Company for sale by private tender. General Fungabera’s tender will be accepted – his brother-in-law is custodian of enemy property. The tender price will be greatly advantageous to the general.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Craig bitterly.

  ‘But why should he go to such lengths?’ Sally-Anne demanded. ‘He must be a millionaire many times over. Surely he has enough already?’

  ‘Miss Jay. For some men there is no such thing as enough.’

  ‘He cannot hope to get away with it, surely?’

  ‘Who is there to prevent him doing so, Miss Jay?’ And when she did not reply, Timon went on, ‘Africa is going back to where it was before the white man intruded. There is only one criterion for a ruler here and that is strength. We Africans do not trust anything else. Fungabera is strong, as Tungata Zebiwe was once strong.’ Timon glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘But we must eat. I think we will have a long day ahead of us.’

  He pulled off the track, and drove the Land-Rover into a patch of second-growth scrub. He climbed onto the bonnet and arranged branches to cover the vehicle, hiding it from detection from the air, and then opened the case of emergency rations from the locker under the passenger seat. There was water in the tank under the floorboards.

  Craig filled a metal canteen with sand and soaked the sand with gasoline from the reserve tank. It made a smokeless burner on which to brew tea. They ate the unappetizing cold rations with little conversation.

  Once Timon turned up the volume on the radio to listen to a transmission, then shook his head.

  ‘Nothing to do with us.’ He came back to squat beside Craig.

  ‘How far to the border, do you reckon?’ Craig asked with a mouth full of cold, sticky bully beef.

  ‘Forty miles, or a little more.’

  The radio crackled to life again, and Timon jumped up, and stooped over it attentively.

  ‘There is a unit of the Third Brigade just a few miles ahead of us,’ he reported. ‘They are at the mission station at Empandeni. There has been action against dissidents, but they had dealt with them and they are moving out. Perhaps this way. We must be careful.’

  ‘I will check that we are hidden from the road.’ Craig stood up. ‘Sally-Anne, douse the fire! Captain, cover me!’

  He picked up the AK 47 and ran back to the track. Critically he examined the patch of scrub that concealed the Land-Rover and then brushed over his own tracks and those of the vehicle with a leafy twig, and carefully straightened the grass that the Land-Rover had flattened where it left the road. It wasn’t perfect, but it would bear a cursory examination from a speeding vehicle, he thought, and then there was a faint vibration on the windless air. He listened. The sound of truck motors, strengthening. Craig ran back to the Land-Rover and climbed into the front seat beside Timon.

  ‘Put your rifle back in the rack,’ Timon said, and when Craig hesitated, ‘Please do as I say, Mr Mellow. If they find us, it will be useless to fight. I will have to try and talk our way through. I couldn’t explain if you were armed.’

  Reluctantly Craig passed the weapon back to Sally-Anne. She racked it and Craig was left feeling naked and vulnerable. He clenched his fists in his lap. The sound of motors grew swiftly, and then over them the voices of men singing. The song grew louder, and despite his tension Craig felt the hair prickle on the nape of his neck to the peculiar beauty of African voices raised in song.

  ‘Third Brigade,’ Timon said. ‘That is the “Song of the Rain Winds”, the praise song of the regiment.’

  Neither of them replied, and Timon hummed the tune to himself, and then began to sing softly. He had a startlingly true and thrilling voice.

  ‘When the nation burns, the rain winds bring relief,

  When the cattle are drought-stricken, the rain winds lift them up,

  When your children cry with thirst, the rain winds slake them,

  We are the winds that bring the rain,

  We are the good winds of the nation.’

  Timon translated from the Shona for their benefit, and now Craig could see the grey dust of the trucks smoking up above the scrub, and the singing was close and clear.

  There was a flash of reflected sunlight off metal, and then through the foliage Craig caught quick glimpses of the passing convoy. There were three trucks, painted a dull sand colour, and the backs were crowded with soldiers in battle camouflage and bush hats, their weapons held ready at the high port position. On the cab of the last truck rode an officer, the only one of them wearing the red beret and silver cap-badge. He looked directly at Craig, and seemed very close, the screen of foliage suddenly very sparse. Craig shrank back in his seat.

  Then, thankfully, the convoy was past, the rumble of engines
and the singing dwindling, the pale dust settling.

  Timon Nbebi exhaled a long breath. ‘There will be others,’ he cautioned, and, with his fingers on the ignition key, waited until the silence was complete once again. Then he started the Land-Rover, reversed out of the scrub and turned back onto the track.

  He swung the Land-Rover in the opposite direction from the convoy, and they drove over the rugged tracks that the trucks had imprinted deeply into the sandy earth. They drove for another twenty minutes before Timon ducked down abruptly in his seat, to peer up at the sky through the windshield.

  ‘Smoke,’ he said. ‘Empandeni is just ahead. Will you have your camera ready, Miss Jay? I believe the Third Brigade will have left something for you.’

  They came to the maize fields that surrounded the mission village. The maize stalks had dried, the cobs in their yellow sheaths were beginning to droop heavily, ready for the harvest. There had been women working in the fields. One of them lay beside the track. She had been shot in the back as she ran, the bullet had exited between her breasts. The unweaned child that she carried on her back had been bayoneted, many times. The flies rose up in a blue hum as they passed and then settled again.

  Nobody spoke. Sally-Anne reached into her camera-bag and brought out her Nikon. She was bloodless grey under her freckles.

  The other women lay further from the road, mere bundles of gay cloth, heavily stained. There were possibly fifty huts in the village, all of them were burning, the thatched roofs torching up to the clear blue morning sky. They had thrown most of the corpses into the burning huts, leaving black puddles drying where they had fallen and drag marks in the dust. The smell of seared flesh was very strong, it coated the roofs of their mouths like congealed pork fat. Craig’s stomach heaved, and he covered his mouth and nose with his hand.

  ‘These are dissidents?’ Sally-Anne whispered. Her lips were icy white. The motor drive of her Nikon whirred as she shot through the open window.

  They had killed the chickens, the loose feathers rolled on the light breeze, like the stuffing from a burst pillow.