Jackal's Dance (54 page)

‘Good point.' Wells scratched his bald spot. ‘But later. You guys didn't hear me say this but we're more experienced at this sort of thing. If the army gets lucky and captures these bastards, I want as much evidence against them as possible.'

One of the constables looked doubtful. ‘Sir? Twenty-eight bodies, or what's left of them, is pretty conclusive stuff.'

‘It is,' the detective sergeant agreed. ‘But only if some of the hostages live to corroborate Megan's
story. I want nothing left to chance on this one. Come on. Let's get going.'

Once on the road, Wells patched into the army's closed radio channel and established their latest position.

‘Ten kilometres south of Andersson Gate.'

‘Are you heading straight to Logans?'

‘Two trucks on body detail. The rest on search and rescue.'

‘I hope you've got enough bags. There are twenty-seven on the pan and one at the lodge.'

‘We're carrying more than that,' the tinny voice replied. ‘With a bit of luck we'll be accommodating some UNITA gents as well.'

‘All twelve I hope,' Wells said sourly. ‘See you at the lodge. Oh, and don't stop at Okaukuejo. The place is crawling with journalists.'

Two members of the Okaukuejo veterinary team waited at Logans Island. They had been sent to keep the lodge free of curious eyes – specifically, the media – until it could be secured by the police. Mal Black's body had come as a shock. Although told not to venture onto the pan, a constant spiral of descending vultures identified the distant scene of carnage. Both men knew the rangers and staff. The sheer horror of what had taken place was beyond their comprehension. After blocking the embankment entrance with empty oil drums and a handwritten sign reading ‘Police: No Entry', they sought solace the only way possible. The cold Windhoek lagers did nothing to wash away the bile.

They heard the cars arrive and went outside. ‘A man's body is in that bungalow,' one told Wells, pointing to number four. ‘The rest are out there.' He jerked a thumb.

Wells noticed the man's glazed eyes and heard the slur as he spoke. He didn't blame him. He'd probably have a few himself a bit later. ‘Thanks.' Without the car's tinted windows, the shimmering glare off the pan was dazzling. ‘The army will be here in about half an hour. Wait here and tell them where to find us.'

‘After that, can we go? This place gives us the creeps.'

‘Sure, if you want me to book you for drink driving. What else can you tell us?'

The veterinary officer's eyes showed resentment. ‘There's a vet department hut burned down over on the mainland. We checked it. Couldn't see anyone. It wasn't supposed to be occupied.'

‘Thanks. I'll have a look later.' Wells relented. ‘If you really want to go, okay, but take it easy and no talking to the media. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, and thanks.' Both men's relief was clear. This was well out of their league and they couldn't wait to leave the whole gory mess to the professionals.

Wells knew it was going to be bad. He'd developed an ability to appear detached at the scene of any accident or crime where people had died. By turning anger inwards, cold rage immunised any softer inclination towards pity or shock. It was the only way to do his job efficiently. But as he walked
across the pan, following the footprints of those who lay out there, Wells was having a hard time distancing himself from images of their last few minutes. Angry he most certainly was, but instead of cushioning him from what he was about to see, his predominant reaction seemed to be fear. It was as if that one overpowering emotion would not depart, that it crouched menacing and evil, waiting to welcome those who dared to approach. ‘Weapons ready,' Wells barked, sounding as furious as he felt. ‘Watch for lions.' The words were unnecessary. If there had been any, they'd have seen them long ago. But the speed with which his men produced their pistols told the detective that they too had the wind up.

The five reluctant policemen's steps slowed and they eventually stopped some fifty metres from the first body.

‘Jesus!' One constable turned, bent and vomited.

Given sufficient numbers, vultures, especially white-backed, can strip a fully grown impala carcass in ten minutes. Attacking eyes and mouth first, they strip back torn flesh, sometimes delving their entire head and neck into a carcass to reach entrails. Feeding undisturbed, a mixture of hooded, white-headed, lappet-faced, white-backed and cape vultures had reduced each and every body, at least in part, to little more than skeletal remains. Skin sagged over exposed bones which had not, as yet, been picked clean, entrails and organs clearly visible through gaping holes. Most of the birds had
stopped feeding and were sitting nearby, waiting until nature called them, yet again, to the unexpected and welcome feast.

‘Come on, men.' Wells had to force himself to move forward.

By the time two army trucks appeared on the pan ten minutes later, he had confirmed what he already knew. The dead were not victims of some weirdo cult suicide. It was mass murder. They had been mown down by AK47 machine guns and at least half had also been shot in the head at close range. Wells watched the approaching lorries. Their tyre marks flanked the footprints. If signs posted on the island were to be believed, they could remain there for two hundred years. Sobering evidence.

‘Christ!' The lieutenant stared with disbelief.

Wells showed him a handful of distinctive 39mm brass cartridge cases.

‘Kalachnikov rounds. This has UNITA's signature all over it.'

‘Where is the rest of your unit?'

‘They picked up tracks on the other side of the embankment. A big group heading cross-country on foot. Going north. Too rough to take the trucks. They've gone after them on foot.'

‘That would have to be them. Any idea how many?'

‘Hard to say. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. How the hell did that girl survive this?'

Wells shook his head. ‘Beats me.'

The second vehicle pulled up. Most soldiers
were young, late teens, early twenties. None would have experienced death on this scale. It was a grim task they faced. ‘Your men on foot will have to move fast. This happened the day before yesterday.'

‘Others are coming in from the north. They're using choppers. We'll get the bastards. Our boys from Angola won't mess about. They hate UNITA.'

The policeman nodded. ‘If they get back across the border with hostages –'

‘We go in after them.' The lieutenant's voice was hard. He jumped down from the cab of his truck and stood, hands on hips, surveying the horror around him. ‘You finished here?'

‘Yes. I'll go through the bungalows but we won't take anything. We'll need to look at the guest register and staff records. Any objection?'

‘Go for it. Makes our job easier. It'll take some time to photograph and bag this lot. Then there are possessions at the lodge to collect and tag before heading back to Windhoek. The news is out, I'm afraid. There are relatives to deal with, although at this stage we have no idea who is dead or alive. I don't mind telling you, I wouldn't want to be one of the unfortunate bastards trying to identify these poor sods. You go for it, mate. Just let us have a copy of your report. Do you want a lift back to the lodge?'

‘I will and thanks, that would be appreciated.'

It was a relief to leave the pan behind. Back on Logans Island, Wells went first to the office. The guest register provided him with visitors' names and bungalow numbers. Staff records took care of
the rest. Megan had already given details of the students taken hostage and said that their professor, Eben Kruger, had been among those killed. She'd also stated that the entire African staff, with the exception of one ranger, had also been murdered. The game drive roster book made it easy to work out that Chester Erasmus was that ranger. Wells' list grew. Now he needed to ascertain who among the tourists was dead. The girl had said that, aside from herself and the professor, three other Europeans were taken onto the pan. That tallied with the body count. Twenty-three African and four Europeans. Who?

It seemed odd that the occupant of bungalow four had been suffocated. There were no signs in the room that he had put up any resistance. Why kill him there? Why not take the man hostage or execute him along with the others? His passport told Wells that Malcolm Black had been American. A line was drawn through the name.

Blood on the bed indicated a struggle in number seven. Someone not giving in without a fight. Luggage tags informed the detective that the occupants had been Gayle Gaynor and Matt Grandville. He recognised both names. The well-known actress would be a valuable hostage, so he assumed that both were among those taken.

Four European bodies. Professor Kruger. Wells ran his eye down the list until he came to Schmidt. Three of them. Too many. The terrorists needed only one. Bungalow three. He left number seven and walked there. Wells studied their passports.
Germans. Mr, Mrs and daughter, Jutta. The girl was fifteen. Fair game to UNITA. It was possible, no, probable, that Jutta was a hostage. Walter Schmidt's passport said he was a company director. That would make him good for a ransom. Wells put a question mark next to Erica's name.

Henneke and Johan Riekert. South African. So were the majority of hostages. Retired. Retired what? Impossible to tell from the passport photographs. The Riekerts stared back at him self-consciously. Check their belongings. Most of the clothes came from the cut-price supermarket chain, OK Bazaars. Guests of Logans Island were surely too well-heeled to be seen dead in mass-market clobber? Seen dead? He would mention labels to the lieutenant. The Riekerts were likely candidates. Question marks at least.

Painstakingly, Wells and the four constables gathered as much evidence as they could. Down at the camp site, Megan's account of the students' capture was verified. All the signs indicated it had happened exactly as she'd said. The African staff had gone quietly. One ranger was probably injured. Another had been busy. Semen stains on the sheets – a lot of them.

By the time they were ready to leave, Wells was fairly certain who were the four Europeans on the pan. His process of elimination was pretty much the same as Ace's. UNITA would target as many countries as possible. Philip Meyer was Australian, Gayle Gaynor and Matt Grandville British, James Fulton an American, Felicity Honeywell South African
with a public profile, Walter and Jutta Schmidt were the likely survivors from that family. That was seven. Plus five students, four rangers, the lodge manager and his wife. A total of eighteen. Looking at his list, Wells wondered about a couple of the rangers. Caitlin McGregor was Scottish so she'd be spared. Chester Erasmus spoke what Megan thought was Portuguese. Useful. It might bear looking into, though. Any African in Namibia who spoke the old colonial language of Angola might well have UNITA connections. It was the other two that were a puzzle. Both South African. Surely the terrorists had enough from that country. Unless . . . The policeman sighed. Yeah! Expendables. That'd be it.

Wells closed his notebook. Should he stop at Okaukuejo and see if Megan could confirm his suspicions about who lay out on the pan? He decided against it. She'd explained how the study group came to be on Logans Island and said they hardly had anything to do with the lodge. Without passport photographs to jog her memory, the girl was unlikely to know who the other three bodies were. He couldn't take any documents, the army needed them.

A beer was definitely called for. The four constables had come to a similar conclusion. Fifteen minutes later, the army lorries returned with their grim cargo. Wells spoke to the lieutenant. ‘There's a man's body in number four. We've searched the island. No-one else. I've drawn up a list which will be with my report. I'm guessing at this stage but it's
likely that together with twenty-three African staff, you've got Erica Schmidt, Henneke and Johan Riekert and Professor Eben Kruger. The professor is confirmed. The other three were guests. Check any clothing. If you find OK Bazaars labels, chances are it's the Riekerts. If there's a woman with German labels, it's probably Erica Schmidt. I'll have something on paper by tomorrow, will that do?'

‘Thanks.' The soldier turned and called a ten-minute break for his men, with a drink for those who needed it.

Not one soldier had to be asked twice.

‘Come on,' Wells said to his constables. ‘We'll check that hut.' He turned back to the soldiers. ‘If we find anything we'll come back and tell you. Otherwise, assume no-one else copped it. Will you leave a guard on this place?'

The lieutenant simply nodded.

They stayed only long enough at the burnt-out shelter to ascertain that nobody else had been killed. The vets had said it was empty. They were right, though it provided little light in the blackest day of his career. The two police vehicles headed south. Wells had done all he could. He'd write up a full report immediately they reached Windhoek. It was a six-hour drive. Rescue of the hostages was up to the army.

Major Eric Tully, a squat, dark man in his mid-forties, of English origin, with a spectacular lack of humour and no patience whatsoever with tin-pot
rebels, led the search and rescue operation. He'd been chosen for his experience. Recently returned from a tour of duty inside Angola, Tully had seen action against UNITA on a number of occasions and knew a thing or two about what to expect. Under fire, the rebel army tended to become undisciplined, yet no conventional forces could match their ability to survive in the bush. They were skilled at concealment and ambush, able to get by on the smell of an oily rag. Covering vast distances on foot presented no problems – from sheer necessity the UNITA rebels were completely at home in the bush and had a level of fitness which came from spending most of their lives there, relying on speed and skill. Tully knew that he and his men would be doing well to catch them but for one thing. The terrorists would be slowed by their captives. But only for as long as they were on foot. If they made it back inside Angola they'd have assistance, and that would make tracing the hostages damned difficult. For now, tracking the group was still easy. The sandy soil pointed the way.