Dictator (37 page)

Yet none came.

At first he thought it might be a trap. He was being lured right into the property, the more easily to be caught at point-blank range. But the ambush he expected never came.

He took the stairs in half-a-dozen strides, three steps at a time.

The landing was deserted.

Carver turned right and made his way along the landing, stepping quietly, keeping his back to the wall until he came to the furthermost door. He paused to listen for any movement or noise from the room beyond it. There was none. He took a pace back, then smashed the heel of his boot against the door, crashing it open.

Nothing happened. The room was empty.

Carver checked around the bed. He opened the wardrobes and went through an internal door to the en-suite bathroom.

No one there.

He went back out to the landing and repeated the process in two more bedroom suites.

The main house had only ever had four bedrooms; guests were put up at smaller cottages in the grounds. When he reached the last bedroom, it was empty, just like the others. But the bedcover was pulled back, the sheets were crumpled and the indentation made by a resting head could still be seen on the pillow. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt had been left carelessly draped over the back of a chair. And there was something more, a lingering trace of scent in the air, a scent that went straight to his brain like a potent drug, triggering memories so powerful it was almost as if he were back in a hotel suite in Hong Kong with her body draped around his, his hand tracing a path down the curve of her spine …

‘Zalika!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’

There were no words of reply. But he thought he heard a sound from behind the bathroom door, the whimper of a frightened animal.

He was there in a second, striding across the room, flinging open the door and saying it again – ‘Zalika!’ – when he saw her naked body curled up in the bottom of a huge stone bath.

He went to her and reached down to touch her, desperate to know that she was still warm, still alive.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded wordlessly and looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. All her hard-won self-assurance had deserted her, leaving just the broken husk of the girl he had first rescued all those years ago.

‘The guards ran away,’ she said. ‘They were so scared. I just wanted to hide. I didn’t know what was out there. I … I …’ The faintest glimmer of an exhausted smile flickered across her face. ‘I hardly dared hope it was you.’

‘Come on,’ Carver said, helping her from the bath, ‘let’s get you out of here.’

He hesitated then, trying to find the right words for what he had to ask next.

‘Has he … has he treated you all right?’

Zalika pressed herself closer to Carver. He felt her nod against his shoulder. Then she pulled away a fraction and looked him in the eye as she gently ran the tips of her fingers down the side of his face.

‘I’m OK,’ she whispered. ‘He hasn’t hurt me. I promise.’

She pulled on her clothes and followed Carver out of the house, clutching him tight as they passed the four dead bodies on the terrace. Justus met them outside and they began the walk to the Land Rover.

Far away in the night, a lion’s roar echoed across the bush once again, like a rumble of distant thunder.

92

The wardens called him Lobengula, after the last great warrior king of the Ndebele people. From the moment he was born, he was the biggest, most dominant cub in his litter. The two brothers and one sister that were born with him all died young, as most lion cubs do: one killed by hyenas, another by a snake-bite, and the third mauled by an older male. But Lobengula survived and swiftly grew to be the finest young male in his pride.

In time, as all male lions must do, he had left his birth-pride and become a nomad, ranging across the Stratten Reserve until he found another pride whose alpha male was past his prime and weakening. Lobengula had fought him, killed him and assumed his place at the head of the pride. For five years he had been the master of all he surveyed, a magnificent creature, standing almost five feet tall at the shoulder and measuring twelve feet from his muzzle to the tuft of his tail. In his prime he had weighed six hundred pounds, and the extravagant size and deep black-brown colour of his mane was a signal to all who came near of his physical prowess and regal status.

The male lion, however, leads a precarious existence. He is not required to hunt – his mane, acting like a massive scarf, causes him to overheat if forced to chase prey for any length of time – but he does have to fight. He must defend the pride against external threats and defend himself against other males seeking to take his place. In the end, a lion’s career, like a politician’s, inevitably ends in failure. He is either killed or forced to leave the pride and go back to a solitary, nomadic existence.

When Lobengula finally met his match he was still enough of a warrior to preserve his own life. But death in battle might have been a more noble end than the half-life to which he was condemned, wandering the bush, searching for carrion or particularly young or weak prey animals that he could bring down swiftly before exhaustion overtook him. But the shortage of food that affected the human population soon transferred itself to the animal population. Though the wardens of the reserve did their best to deter poachers, still the desperation of the people was so great that many of the wildebeest, bucks and even zebras were killed for their meat. And, in the end, unpaid and hungry, the wardens themselves joined the slaughter.

Every creature killed by human predators was one less for the animal ones. The lions grew hungry. Mothers could no longer provide for their cubs. And solitary males like Lobengula felt their muscles waste and their ribs press against their fur as starvation gnawed at their guts. But even a mangy, ageing Lobengula was still a very large, dangerous beast. He was also becoming more bad-tempered by the day; an angry, embittered old man with a grudge against his world.

Tonight he had been roaring his displeasure and frustration as he paced the bush, looking for something, anything, to eat but finding not a scrap. Now he was tired and hungrier than ever. So he lay down, as cats of all sizes will do, exactly where he pleased. And, like any other cat, once he had found his spot, he had absolutely no intention of moving from it.

93

For fifteen minutes the Land Rover made steady progress over relatively flat, open terrain. From time to time they came across game: a giraffe, some warthogs, even a female rhino and her calf. All made way for the car, disappearing into the bush at the sound of its engine and the smell of its exhaust. Carver was driving without lights so as not to give away his position, a skill he’d first been taught in the SBS. But for all his training, even the most docile bush country was still littered with hazards: potholes, boulders, tree-roots and thickets of tangled, thorn-bearing undergrowth. It was far better to temper his impatience, keep his speed down and stay out of trouble than risk going too fast and suffer an accident. Yet he knew it was just a matter of time before some kind of pursuit came after them and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to resist the temptation to press the pedal to the floor.

Three miles from the border, the land began to rise towards a low range of hills. Now the going became rougher. The soil was thinner with many more boulders to be avoided. The Land Rover’s four-wheel-drive and low gearbox ratio came into their own as Carver let it roll down the precipitous bank of a dried-up river-bed and then up the other side. His pace slowed still further as the car made its way through tight gullies, the tyres fighting for purchase on narrow trails that fell away into ditches and ravines. What had been a straight line across country became a twisting course around blind corners and over humps in the landscape that gave no clue as to what lay on the other side.

Justus did his best to recall what lay in store for them, as did Zalika. But a long time had gone by since either of them had lived or worked on the Stratten Reserve, and their task was made no easier by the night, even if a three-quarter moon shone from the cloudless sky and the stars burned in the heavens as bright pinpricks of billion-year-old light.

From time to time, Carver stopped the car and they listened for any sound of pursuit. Then, clutching his own rifle for security, Justus got out and tentatively walked on ahead, scouting out the way before returning to report his findings to Carver. As he stood outside the Land Rover, talking in a low, barely audible voice to Carver in the driver’s seat, his reports were always calm and measured, expert assessments of the challenges they faced.

They were so close to the border now, just another few minutes’ drive. The tension was still acute, the fear of capture ever-present. Now, though, for the first time, there was real hope, too. Carver had let himself imagine the beer that Parkes had waiting for him. Justus could almost feel the joy that would come when he held his children in his arms again.

But then, on his fifth sortie, when they were traversing a hillside along a narrow ledge, a rockface rising to the left of them, the slope falling steeply away to the right, Justus returned at a sprint, looking behind him as he ran. In his haste, he did not see the small hole in the trail ahead of him. His foot turned on the side of the hole, twisting his ankle and sending Justus crashing to the ground. In an instant he was up again, grimacing as he got to his feet and hobbling the last few steps to the car. He pulled open the passenger door, leapt up into his seat, the effort making him cry out in pain, and slammed it shut again before gasping a single, breathless word: ‘Lion!’

‘Where?’ Carver asked.

‘Just around the corner, in the middle of the path. He is asleep. I don’t think I woke him.’

‘Then we’d better do it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t be daft. He’ll soon wake up and get the hell out of there when he sees a bloody great lump of metal lumbering towards him.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Zalika. ‘Lions aren’t like other animals. They don’t move just because they see us coming.’

‘We’ll just have to make him move, then, won’t we?’

The mutters of protest from the other two were drowned out as Carver started up the engine and moved the Land Rover forward. Its tyres crunched over dust and pebbles as it slowly drove round the corner. And there, exactly as Justus had promised, lay a very large, very sleepy lion.

94

Lobengula had encountered his first truck when he was still a cub. Over the years he had become accustomed to these loud, smelly objects and had learned that they offered neither a threat to him nor a meal. He was, therefore, entirely indifferent to their presence. So now, when the noise of the Land Rover’s engine woke him, he reluctantly opened his eyes, glowered at the vehicle approaching him, then rested his head back down on his huge paws.

The metal machine came closer to him, so close that he could almost reach out his claws and strike it. This time when he raised his head, Lobengula’s stare was a lot angrier and he gave a low, grumbling growl of disapproval. Then, determined not to budge, he lowered his head again.

‘Why don’t you give it a blast of the horn?’ asked Zalika.

Carver almost thought he could hear a teasing tone in her voice, a return to her old, combative spirit. But then he recalled all the times during the drive when she had turned in her seat, looking anxiously out of the rear window to see if anyone was on her trail. Whatever front she might put on, Zalika was all too aware of the danger they were still in.

‘Can’t risk it,’ he said. ‘If there’s anyone out there, they’d hear it. Maybe we could shoot it.’

‘You should only shoot a lion if you can kill it there and then,’ said Justus. ‘And if you kill this lion right here, you will then have to move its body.’

‘That means getting a chain round it, using the winch – we haven’t got time for all that,’ Carver said. ‘The hell with this.’

He revved the engine then slowly inched the car forward. Surely the lion would move once it felt the press of steel on its body.

Lobengula moved. He scrabbled backwards, got to his feet, gave an irritable shake of his mane and then, standing four square in the Land Rover’s path, he growled again, a shorter, more clipped sound, almost a bark. It was his equivalent of a warning shot across the bows. The next time he’d really roar. And if that didn’t remove this nuisance from his life, he’d have to start fighting.

Carver rolled his eyes and looked up at the roof of the car. ‘Jesus wept.’

‘There was another path, a couple of hundred metres back, pointing down the hill. Maybe we could try that,’ Zalika suggested.

‘Anything’s better than pissing about here,’ said Carver, pulling at his seat-belt. ‘Strap in tight.’

The lion wasn’t the only male losing his temper. The tension and impatience Carver had suppressed so efficiently for the past forty minutes burst through his tightly stretched composure. He wrenched the gear-stick into reverse, turned in his seat to look through the rear window and kicked the accelerator hard.

The Land Rover shot backwards. Carver turned the steering wheel hard to get back round the corner. Too hard: the rear corner of the car collided with the sheer rock on the upward side of the hill. Carver overcompensated as he pulled the wheel the other way.

‘Watch out!’ Zalika yelled.

But it was too late. One of the rear tyres had lost its footing on the edge of the road. Carver slammed on the brakes, but the Land Rover was out of control, skidding sideways and backwards over the edge, crashing on to its side and sliding twenty feet down the hill until it collided roof-first with the base of a tree and came to a crashing halt.

Carver turned off the engine, and as a cloud of smoke and dust drifted away on the breeze, silence returned to the hillside. The tree had punched a great trough in the roof of the Land Rover. All the windows down the driver’s side of the car were smashed and the interior of the car was scattered with safety glass. The three people inside were hanging sideways in their chairs, suspended from their seat-belts.