The Delta (15 page)

Glutinous honey oozed between his sticky fingers and smeared the tree as he shimmied down and jumped the last couple of metres to land dramatically in front of the camera. He held up a piece of honeycomb to the lens and sank his teeth into it.

‘Mmmmm. Oh, my, that tastes …
great
.' He licked his lips. ‘It's
got a kind of acrid, raw taste to it, and the same scent as the leaves of this big old mopane tree where it came from. It's not like honey from a supermarket. It's stronger, wilder, but damn, it's good!'

He stopped talking and continued to gorge himself on the sticky, chewy delight, for the viewers' benefit and his own.

‘What I'm doing now,' he said as he broke two of the larger remaining chunks of the honeycomb in half, ‘is leaving a little something for my avian friend up there. We've just proved one legend right – the one about honeyguides leading not only animals, but also humans to beehives. The other legend I recall about this bird is that if he leads you to a hive and you don't share with him, then the next time he sees you, or another human being, he'll lead you into a trap, such as a lion or a leopard, or a Mozambican spitting cobra. Here you go, little guy.' Sam set the offering down on a fallen log and stepped back. Using his palm – his fingers were a mess – he panned the camera around until it was focused on the log and the pile of dripping honeycomb. Within seconds the honeyguide had left its perch and alighted on the makeshift altar, where he proceeded to peck away at his reward.

‘Man.' Sam stood and watched the bird. He felt an incredible rush, partly from the honey in his empty stomach, and partly because he'd just witnessed the manifestation of a symbiotic relationship between man and a wild creature. He also felt pretty damned proud of himself for truly starting to survive in the African bush on his own merits. With the camera still rolling he raised his makeshift spear in a sticky hand high above his head and shouted, ‘Yeah!'

Then he heard the buzzing. He looked up. ‘Oh shit!'

Sonja saw the smoke and dismounted. ‘Hush, girl,' she whispered to the whinnying horse. ‘I'm just going to leave you here
for a bit.' She tethered Black Beauty to a tree, patted her reassuringly on the neck, and untied her daypack from the back of the saddle. She took out the M4, slotted in a thirty-round magazine and yanked back on the cocking handle.

She was trespassing and unless the local community had changed the lease on the land she was crossing it was probably still a hunting concession. Smoke meant fire and a narrow column of grey rising into the blue sky in otherwise unburned bushveld meant a camp. It could be hunters, wildlife researchers, Botswana Wildlife Rangers, or even poachers. None of them would be particularly happy to see a lone woman on a horse crossing their turf.

The extendable metal butt of the rifle was in her shoulder and her finger resting outside the trigger guard. She scanned the bush from right to left. She had learned in the army that because westerners learn to read left to right they normally scan their surroundings in the same way. Forcing herself to do the opposite made her eyes work slower and ensure she missed little.

Sonja moved in an arc, off to her right, so that she stayed downwind of the pillar of smoke. She smelled man. Sweat, urine, toothpaste. No food.

She paused to unhook a thorn from her bush shirt. Every step was placed carefully, slowly, ensuring she avoided dry twigs and piles of leaves. A flock of guinea fowl cluck-clucked nearby, but weren't alarmed by her presence. A grey
lourie
warned her to
go-away
,
go-away
. Her curiosity wouldn't let her.

The smoke was strong in her nostrils now and she dropped to her belly and leopard-crawled forward. She saw the green canvas dome tent. It looked new. It could belong to anyone, but poachers were rarely so well equipped. Sonja lay still and watched the camp site for ten minutes, listening for snoring or other sounds that would indicate there was someone inside the
tent. She heard nothing. Slowly, she got to her feet and moved closer.

The camp site was empty. Inside the tent she found a satellite phone – definitely not poachers – and an expensive sleeping bag. The make was foreign, not South African. It smelled of unwashed male, with a lingering hint of aftershave or cologne. Not local. She circled the tent looking for spoor. She found his footprints – expensive hiking boots with deep new tread, but no tyre tracks. Odd. If there had been food in the tent she would have taken it, but there was none. Sonja knelt and took a closer look at the man's trail. It was fresh, the broken stems of grass still bent, not having had time to spring back. She wondered how he had got here, whether he had walked in.

She decided to leave the horse where she was and track the mystery man. He'd left a trail a blind woman could follow, so it was easy for her to keep careful watch on the bush ahead of her. He was carrying a tripod with him – the three indentations plain in the dust whenever he stopped to rest. A bird spotter? There were no particularly rare species in this part of the delta. Wildlife photographer? If so, how did he get here – by parachute?

She followed the man's tracks and a short time later she smelled old smoke again. Sonja recognised the sweet, earthy natural incense – elephant dung. She and Stirling had recovered from enough teenage binge-drinking nights that way for her to remember the smell. She stopped short of a large mopane tree when she heard the buzzing of angry African bees. She'd been stung on the cheek once and for two days it had felt as though she'd been kicked by a donkey.

‘Aargh!'

Sonja raised her rifle instinctively as she sought out the source of the cry. It was human. She moved forward quickly, with all her senses ratcheted up a notch. The trees gave way to a verdant
floodplain slashed by a river. The Gomoti. She knew it by its location, though not by its size. This was a trickle compared to the river she remembered from her youth. She heard the groan of pain or distress again and peered through the 1.5 times magnifier of the sight on top of the rifle. She saw movement on the river's bank. It corresponded with the sound, but barely looked human. If he was in the river, he was in trouble. She ran forward, the tip of the M4's barrel up and leading the way as she crossed the open ground.

A zebra stallion snorted and his harem of females wheeled and galloped away from their approach to the river, raising dust clouds with their pounding hooves. The matriarch of an elephant family on the far bank raised her trunk at the mix of new scents. A pair of Egyptian geese honked in panic and took off as Sonja's feet sloshed through the mud.

The creature looked up at her, white eyes blinking from black mud. ‘Help,' it croaked.

Sonja paused and, seeing no sign of a weapon, slung her rifle over her shoulder. The black ooze reached above the tops of her boots, slowing her progress. She saw the outstretched hand. The man coughed and spat, trying to get to his hands and knees, but slipping.

The mud was foul here, stinking of animal shit and dotted with algae. The water was a sickly bright lime green in places, fringed with a wicked-looking red. Out of habits learned as a child she scanned the river left and right.

‘Help me.' He reached out for her. ‘Bees …'

She slogged closer and took his hand, hauling on it.

‘Thank you.' He coughed again as he thrust his free hand into the goop to steady himself. ‘Are you …'

She let go of his hand and he fell again, face first.

He coughed and spluttered. ‘Holy shit, what did you do that for?'

The noise of four gunshots silenced his protests. Sonja saw at least two hit home and the water a metre behind the struggling, cursing man's right boot started boiling.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!' He scrabbled forward on all fours, through the mud, past where she stood, legs apart, braced, smoke curling from the muzzle of the M4, her gaze still fixed on the slowly settling ripples. ‘What the hell was that in aid of?'

‘Flatdog.' She let the rifle dangle by her side from its sling, the barrel comfortingly warm against the bare skin of her thigh. If there was one creature she didn't mind seeing dead, it was one of these prehistoric beasts. Man was fair game to a flatdog, and vice versa.

‘A what?'

‘Crocodile.' She reached down again and dragged him to his feet.

She wiped her hand on her shorts; it was sticky and gooey, and not just from the mud. She sniffed her fingers. ‘You were after the honey in the beehive?'

‘How did you know?'

‘Elephant dung smoke; the way they were buzzing when I passed the tree. The way you buried yourself in animal shit and mud to escape them.'

He made a futile attempt to wipe the worst of the muck from his clothes and skin but winced when he wiped his eyes and drove more mud into them.

‘Here.' She handed him her water bottle. ‘Just a little. For your eyes.'

He followed her back to dry land, onto the grass, sluicing his face as he went. He stopped and she turned when she no longer heard his feet scuffing the dry grass.

‘Wait a minute …'

She looked at him. White shone in the black face as his mouth broke into a wide, almost idiotic grin.

‘Wait just a freaking minute! Ha ha!' He broke into laughter and started doing an impromptu jig on the spot. ‘Woo-hoo! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'

Sonja was confused. She moved a hand slowly to the plastic pistol grip of the M4 and took a step backwards.

‘You've been watching me all along, haven't you?'

She shook her head. ‘I just got here, man. And lucky I did. Who are you?'

‘Who am I?' He started laughing again. ‘Oh, lady, this is rich. But save it. This is great. We really have to get this on camera. Wait. We
are
on camera, aren't we?'

Sonja licked her lips. The man was mad.

‘Ray? Gerry? Cheryl-Ann? Come on out, guys,' he bellowed. He started spinning around, searching the trees on either side of the river. He cupped his filthy hands on either side of his mouth. ‘Where aaaaare you? Come out, come out wherever you are. You got me, guys. Let's talk.'

‘Talk about what?' she asked.

‘Oh, come
on
. I get it. This is the surprise. Goddamn, you had me going there for a while. Please, please, please tell me you got me running into the river. I got stung, like, three times, but I'm not mad. You guys had me worried for a while but …'

She held up her free hand, palm out to him. ‘Mister, calm down. I don't know what you're talking about. I think we need to get you some more water.' She turned and started walking back to the tree line, lengthening her stride to keep the distance between them. Shit. She shouldn't have followed his tracks in the first place. She could have given him a wide berth. Now what was she going to do? She couldn't leave a madman to die in the bush.

‘OK,' he said, running a sticky hand through hair gelled with mud and honey. ‘I get it. Still need to play along. Just tell me, on
the QT if you like, are we being filmed now? Just so I know whether or not to set the handy cam up again.'

She stopped and looked at him. His eyes were wide and intent. He believed the questions he was asking were sane. True madness. ‘No, mister, we are not being filmed. I can confirm that.' He started walking towards her. ‘Keep your distance.'

‘
Keep your distance?
Who are you supposed to be? Sheena of the freaking African Jungle or something? Ha ha.' He lowered his voice. ‘Or is it, “Hasta la vista, baby”? Doesn't matter. It's your gig – your character. I'm getting the camera. Stay right there.'

She took another pace back as he passed her. Beside the tree, on its side, was a video camera mounted on a tripod. He unclipped the camera from the head and raised it.

‘No!'

‘What do you mean, no? You're the surprise guest star. Say something to the folks back home.'

‘No!' In the army, working with special forces, there had been a blanket ban on operatives in the Det being photographed or filmed by the media. As a mercenary she guarded her privacy and anonymity just as fiercely. She raised her palm and pressed it against the lens as he closed on her.

‘OK. Very good for the opening shot, but let's get serious now.' He cleared his throat. ‘So, who are you, mystery gal of the bush?'

‘I said, no filming.' She grabbed the lens and pushed the camera, ramming it back into his chest.

‘Hey, take it easy. There's reality TV and there's reality, OK?' He raised the camera again. ‘So, who are …'

Sonja slapped the camera, hard enough to make him fumble and almost drop it. While he was cursing she swung her M4 up and across her body. She didn't point it at him, but he seemed to get the message.

‘Hey, hey … OK, no camera until you've done your makeup. I get it. I've gotta say, though, I think you might have overdone it a bit on the method acting, Lara Croft.'

She took a step back from him, her rifle still held up and ready. ‘Who are you?'

He looked around him again. ‘OK. I get it, I get it.' He cleared his throat again, and laughed loudly.

‘Drink the rest of that water. I think you might have heat stroke. You're not making sense, mister …'

‘Chapman. Coyote Sam to my friends and gun-toting saviours.' He winked.

Dehydration and heatstroke – she was sure of it. ‘I found your tent.'

He drank the rest of the bottle of warm water in one long gulp then wiped his lips, leaving a smear of mud and honey. ‘Uh-huh. And don't tell me … you used your excellent tracking skills to find me here and save me from the
crocodile
. Incidentally, that was a nice touch. Are they blanks in that rifle?'

‘I think I need to get you back to your tent. Throw me the empty water bottle. Wait here.'

He saluted her and tossed the bottle. ‘Yes, ma'am!'

Sam sat in the shade of a tree – not the one with the bees – and watched the woman walk back out to the river. She held her assault rifle in her right hand, by its pistol grip, and the empty plastic water bottle in her left. She waded out through the mud into the river, which was only knee deep. When she reached midstream she looked up and down the watercourse then bent to fill the bottle.