"In this heat, it won't be so good."
"Oh, well . . . get some of that ape's fat off. Do you know how to pluck and draw a bird, Garry?"
"No . . . do you?"
"No. So we won't bother to hunt guinea-fowl. We'll have beans and bacon for lunch." She got to her feet. "I'm going to have another swim . . . coming?"
He hesitated. "Those three are worrying me, Gaye."
"Then a swim with me will put them out of your mind. There's nothing we can do for them . . . so come on and swim."
She went into the tent for the towels and then together they walked in the burning sun towards the pool.
Fennel wished now he hadn't drunk so much beer in the past. The rough, stony track, the hot sun and the pace that Ken was setting all reminded him of how out of condition he was. The strap of his tool bag was rubbing his shoulder raw. Sweat streamed down his face and blackened his shirt. He was breathing heavily.
At a guess, he thought, they had covered only six kilometres. Ken had talked of thirty kilometres before they reached Kahlenberg's place. Twenty-four kilometres! Fennel gritted his teeth. He was certain he couldn't do it with this tool kit: it got heavier and heavier with every step he took. Apart from his tool kit, he was also carrying his rucksack.
Before setting off, they had decided to leave the sleeping bags and the shotgun. Ken carried the Springfield and his own rucksack, Themba was carrying a rucksack stuffed with provisions and a five litre jerrycan of water.
Fennel plodded on, dragging one foot after the other. He longed for some shade, but there was none on this narrow track. He badly wanted a drink and thought regretfully of the beer they had left behind them. He had wanted it along with them, but when Ken said it was okay with him if Fennel would carry it, Fennel decided against the idea.
He paused to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and was stung with mortification to see the other two walking and chatting together, well ahead of him.
Ken glanced back and then stopped. Themba continued on for a few steps and then he stopped.
Fennel felt a spurt of rage go through him. He came plodding up to them. One look at his exhausted face told Ken that he was going to be a liability. Themba thought so too, and putting down the jerrycan he said something to Fennel who didn't understand.
"He says he'll carry your tool bag if you'll carry the jerrycan," Ken translated.
Fennel hesitated, but he knew the bag now was too much for him.
"What makes him think he can carry it?" he demanded, lowering the bag thankfully to the ground.
"He wouldn't make the offer if he didn't," Ken pointed out as Themba hoisted up the bag and slung it on his shoulder.
Fennel hesitated, then said, "Well, tell him . . . thanks. It's a bitch of a thing to carry." He caught hold of the jerrycan and the three men continued on their way: the other two slowing down to keep pace with Fennel.
The next hour was a hellish up-hill grind for Fennel, but he kept plodding on, breathing heavily, furious with himself to see how easily the other two were taking the ordeal.
"How about a drink?" he gasped, coming to a halt.
But the drink gave him no satisfaction as the water was warm and anyway, Fennel loathed drinking water.
Ken looked at his watch.
"In another ten minutes, we'll call Garry. Then we'll have a rest."
"That guy must have been born lucky," Fennel growled, picking up the jerrycan. "He doesn't know how well off he is." They continued on, and at 13.00 hrs., they left the track and sat down in the shade of the jungle. Ken contacted Garry and reported progress.
"We should be in position by 18.00 hrs.," he said, and added the going was rough.
Garry made sympathetic noises, said he would be standing by at 15.00 hrs. and switched off.
After half an hour's rest, they continued on for another hour, then Ken said it was time to eat. They left the sun soaked track and sat down in the shade of the trees. Themba opened cans of steak pie and baked beans.
"How much farther?" Fennel asked, his mouth full.
Ken consulted Themba.
"About six kilometres and then we'll be in the jungle."
"Ask him if he wants me to carry the bag again."
"He's okay . . . don't bother about it."
"Ask him! That bag's goddamn heavy!"
Ken spoke to Themba who grinned and shook his head.
"Black people are used to carrying white men's burdens," Ken said, keeping his face straight.
Fennel eyed him.
"Okay, I'll take that . . . so he's a better man than I am."
"Skip it or I'll burst into tears."
Fennel smiled sourly.
"My time's coming. You two may be pretty hot with this jungle and walking crap, but you wait until you see me in action."
Ken offered his pack of cigarettes and the two men lit up.
Do you think he's giving it to her?" Fennel asked abruptly. When not on his discomforts, his mind kept returning to Gaye.
"Who's giving what to whom?" Ken asked blandly.
Fennel hesitated, then shrugged. "Forget it!"
An hour later, they again contacted Garry and again reported progress, then they left the mountain track and entered the jungle. Although it was steamy hot, the relief of constant shade helped them to quicken their pace.
Themba led the way with Ken and Fennel following. A narrow track through the dense undergrowth forced them to walk in single file. Overhead, Vervet monkeys swung from tree to tree, watching them. A big sable buck that was standing in the middle of the track as they rounded a high shrub went crashing away into the jungle, startling Fennel.
They had to keep a watch-out for shrubs with long, sharp thorns, and they all concentrated on the ground ahead of them. None of them suspected that they were being watched. High on a branch of a tree sat a giant Zulu, wearing only a leopard skin. In his right hand, he held a two-way radio. He waited until the three men had passed, then spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece of the radio, his message being picked up by Miah, Kahlenberg's secretary, who had been detailed to keep in touch with the twenty watching Zulus positioned to report the movements of strangers on the estate.
From the moment the three men entered the jungle, they were never out of sight from the watchful eyes of the Zulus, hidden in the undergrowth or concealed in the tree tops.
Miah took down the Zulus' reports in rapid shorthand, passed them to Ho-Du who rapidly transcribed them on a typewriter and then had them sent immediately to Kahlenberg.
Kahlenberg was enjoying this. The drama of the Land Rover had been observed and reported to him, and now he knew these three men were actually on his estate.
He turned to Tak. "The Bantu is expendable," he said. "Give the order that if the occasion presents itself, he is to be got rid of. As he seems to be acting as a guide, it is unlikely the others will be able to find their way out without him."
Tak picked up a two-way radio and spoke softly into it.
While he was speaking, Ken called a brief rest as they reached a clearing in the jungle. The three men sat down in the shade and all took a drink of water.
Ken talked to Themba for a few minutes. Themba pointed. Ahead of them was a narrow track that led into dense undergrowth.
"That's the track that leads directly to Kahlenberg's place," Ken explained to Fennel. "We can't miss it. We'll leave Themba here, and we'll go on. If we come unstuck, I don't want him involved. When we have done the job, we'll pick him up here and he'll guide us out. Okay?"
"You're sure we can find our way without him?
"We follow the track. It leads directly to the house."
"Well, okay." Fennel looked at his watch. "How long will it take to get to the house?"
"About two hours. We'll go now. We'll get near enough to the house before dark."
Fennel grunted and got to his feet.
Ken talked again to Themba who grinned, nodding his head.
"We'll take some food with us. I've got a water bottle," Ken said, turning to Fennel. "You'll have to carry your kit again."
"Okay, okay, I'm not a cripple."
Themba put some canned food into Ken's rucksack.
"We'll leave our other stuff here," Ken went on, shouldering the rucksack, "and the rifle." He shook hands with Themba. Speaking in
Afrikaans, he said, "We'll be back the day after tomorrow night. If we are not back in four days, go home."
Fennel came up to Themba. He looked slightly embarrassed as he pointed to his bag of tools, then grinning sheepishly, he offered his hand. Themba was delighted and grinning widely, he gripped the offered hand.
As he fell into step beside Ken, Fennel said, "I was wrong about him . . . he's a good man."
"We all make mistakes," Ken looked at Fennel with a sly grin. "I seemed to have been wrong about you."
Themba watched them walk into the jungle and disappear. He set out collecting sticks for the fire he would light at dusk. He liked being on his own and was always at home in the jungle. He was slightly curious why the two white men had gone off on their own, but decided it was no business of his. He was being well paid for acting as a guide, and already Ken had given him enough money to enable him to buy a small car when he returned to Durban where he rented a bungalow in which his wife and son lived. He didn't see much of them as he was constantly on various game reserves in the district, but every other week-end, he would come home . . . something he always looked forward to.
He made a neat pile of sticks near the tree where the equipment was stacked, then moved into the jungle to find a few dead branches to give guts to the fire.
Suddenly he paused to listen. Something had moved not far from him. His keen ears had distinctly heard the rustle of leaves. A baboon? he wondered. He stood motionless, looking in the direction of the sound.
Out of a thicket behind him, rose a Zulu, wearing a leopard skin across his broad muscular shoulders. The sun glittered; on the broad blade of his assagai. For a brief moment, he balanced the heavy stabbing spear in his huge black hand, then threw it with unerring aim and with tremendous force at Themba's unprotected back.
High in the evening sky, six vultures began to circle patiently.
Chapter Seven
"There it is on your right," Garry said suddenly.
Gaye peered through the helicopter's window. They were flying over dense jungle, and as Garry banked, the jungle abruptly terminated and she could see acres of rich green lawns, green cement paths and vast beds of flowers that would have done credit to a botanical garden. Beyond the lawns she saw the one storey house which was built in a slight curve, and from this height, seemed to her, to be at least seventy metres long. Behind the house, some two hundred metres away were numerous small bungalows with thatched roofs and white painted walls in which she supposed the staff lived.
"It's enormous!" she exclaimed. "What an extraordinary shape! Imagine walking from one end to the other several times a day."
"Perhaps they use skates," Garry said. "It's certainly big." He circled the house again. They could see a swimming-pool, terraces, sun umbrellas and lounging chairs. "We'd better get down. Are you nervous?"
She shook her head, smiling.
"Not a bit . . . excited. I wonder if we'll get in."
"You've got to get us in," Garry said.
He spotted the airfield and a hangar. As he came lower, he saw three Zulus in white drill, staring up at the helicopter.
He landed not far from them and as he slid back the door, he saw a jeep coming along the road from the house, driven by a Zulu with a white man in a grey city-suit sitting at his side.
"Here comes the welcoming committee," he said and dropped to the ground.
Gaye handed him down the Rolleiflex camera and her camera bag, and then joined him on the runway as the jeep pulled up. Tak got out of the jeep and came towards them. Leaving
Garry, Gaye advanced to meet him.
"I am Gaye Desmond of Animal World magazine," she said and held out her hand.
Tak regarded her, thinking she was even more lovely than her photograph. He took her hand briefly and gave her a little bow.
"I apologize for landing like this," Gaye went on. There was something about this tall man that she instantly distrusted and disliked. "I'm on my way to Wannock Game Reserve, and I saw this lovely house and just couldn't resist calling. If I shouldn't have, please tell me, and I will leave at once."
"Not at all, Miss Desmond," Tak said silkily. "We seldom have such a beautiful visitor. Now you are here, I hope you will stay to lunch."
"How nice of you! We would love to, Mr. . . ." She looked inquiringly at him.
"Guilio Tak."
She turned to Garry who joined them.
"Mr. Tak, this is Garry Edwards, my pilot."
Again Tak bowed.
"Mr. Tak has kindly invited us to lunch."
Garry shook hands with Tak. He too didn't like the look of him.
Gaye went on, "The house is marvellous and so isolated! I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw it. Have you had it long, Mr. Tak?"
"This is not my residence, Miss Desmond. It belongs to Mr. Max Kahlenberg."
Gaye stared at him, her eyes widening.
"You mean the millionaire? The Mr. Max Kahlenberg?"
The expression in his black eyes was slightly sardonic as Tak said, "That is correct."
"But I have heard he is a recluse!" Gaye said. Watching her, Garry thought she was putting over the act well. "We'd better go. We mustn't disturb him."
"You won't do that. Mr. Kahlenberg is not a recluse. I am sure he will be pleased to meet you."
"Would it be possible to photograph the house. I also freelance for Life. It would be a marvellous scoop for me."
"That you must ask Mr. Kahlenberg. But don't let us stand here in the sun." Tak moved to the jeep. "I will take you to the house."
