Piranha. Rudie van Rensburg

the Kruger team of game rangers. ‘But they’re a clever bunch and they use sophisticated silencers that completely muffle the shots. They also don’t waste time: they cut the horns out and they bugger off.’

      Natasha nodded. ‘Which is why we want to deploy most of you in the north.’ She motioned towards Gert beside her. ‘The helicopter’s also only going to look at that area. Catching The Silencers is first prize.’

      ‘Are we only going to focus on rhinos, or are we going to look at elephants too?’ Gert wanted to know.

      ‘For the next month we’re going to be on rhinos only.’

      She felt bad about this. She’d recently read in a report by conservationists that twenty percent of Africa’s elephants could be wiped out in the next decade. Twenty thousand elephants were killed annually, but the biggest crisis was currently in central Africa, where the tempo of poaching was estimated to be double that of the rest of the continent. Ivory poaching was a growing problem in Mozambique, though. Ivory poachers were active in the Kruger too, but for now she wanted to target the rhino plundering.

      ‘Use all your contacts in the area. See how many locals you can get to put their ear to the ground. We’ve budgeted for intel. If anyone gives us a tip that leads to arrests, we’ll pay them.’

      She looked at Petrus. ‘Have you brought in new helpers?’

      He nodded. ‘Yes. A Zimbabwean. Freedom Chiweshe. He and three of his colleagues are acting as extra eyes for us. They provide wood to all the camps in the north, so they’re on the ground all the time.’

      Natasha smiled. ‘Good stuff. The more people we involve, the better chance we have of busting these bastards.’

      * * *

      Maria Wolhuter shook her head. ‘No, I have no idea what plan Barnie was dreaming up.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘He’s already sold everything of value in this house, so I couldn’t have been the target this time.’

      Kassie nodded empathetically. ‘Tell me about his friends. Any dodgy types?’

      She snorted. ‘All his drug buddies were dodgy. Not that I ever met any of them. I don’t know any of their names.’

      ‘Any colleagues from his last job that might be able to shed some light?’ Rooi asked.

      Maria sighed. ‘I wouldn’t know. Barnie didn’t talk about his work much. He was away most of the time, travelling, especially to Asia. He was the only person at the company who managed exports. He left them a while ago, I believe, but I suppose you could try them.’

      ‘Who did he work for?’

      ‘African Curio.’

      ‘African Curio!’ Rooi exclaimed. ‘That’s where Bugsy just got a job.’

      He laughed self-consciously when Maria looked at him. ‘My pet name for my wife. She’s just started working at their shop in the Waterfront.’

      ‘Yes, I know they have a number of outlets here on the Peninsula, but Barnie never had anything to do with the shops. He was in charge of export consignments. That’s where most of their profit lies.’

      Kassie looked at Rooi. ‘Should we go and talk to them?’

      Rooi nodded. ‘Wouldn’t do any harm.’

      ‘Do you have a name of someone we could talk to there?’ Kassie asked.

      ‘The big boss is Montgomery Smith. As far as I know, Barnie reported to him.’

      * * *

      I would only read the full background of what happened in Uganda leading up to the shocking events on 17 May 1972 in the newspaper later.

      Apart from his self-declared position as president of the country, Idi Amin was also the commander in chief of the armed forces, the chief of staff of the army, and the air force commander. He’d changed the name of the presidential residence to ‘The Command Post’.

      His most radical step was to dissolve the country’s intelligence agency and replace it with his own ‘State Research Bureau’. Its headquarters was in Nakasero, a suburb of Kampala, and it became a place of torture and of execution.

      Smiley’s father had completely underestimated Amin. He openly criticised the president at agricultural gatherings and public meetings in the south-west. The fact that he and Obote were friends also counted against him.

      On 16 May 1972, he received instruction to report to the State Research Bureau for questioning. Late on the afternoon of 17 May, Smiley’s mother was informed that her husband had had a heart attack during questioning. His corpse was never delivered to Kabuwoke as the authorities had promised. ‘Bureaucratic blunder’, was all she got out of a civil servant.

      Smiley went to Uganda for the memorial service.

      The minute he got back to Stellenbosch he informed me that he and his mother were unable to continue paying for my studies. ‘And you’re going to have to move,’ he told me. ‘I need to rent your room out to someone who can pay for it.’

      13

      Jackal Williams pushed the button for the security gate. Dada’s voice crackled through the intercom: ‘If you’re an enemy, you can fuck right off. But friends are always welcome.’

      ‘Is the dog tied up in the backyard?’ Jackal asked. He heard a little laugh he took to mean it was safe to go in. He jogged quickly across the lawn, opened the front door and stepped inside. Dada was sitting in the corner of the big living room, as always: dirty vest, pyjama bottoms and slippers, cigarette in the mouth, reading the Daily Sun.

      ‘Where’s Kwaai?’ Jackal asked.

      Dada didn’t look up from the newspaper, but pointed down the passage towards the toilet. ‘Riding the porcelain scooter.’

      Jackal paused at the big full-length mirror to admire himself. He liked his new look. He touched his curls. Since he’d been leaving it natural, the girls were checking him out again. He’d grown sick of fighting with the flat iron every morning. And the chemicals and straighteners had been screwing his hair up big time. Now he had more time in the mornings. A bit of Dr Miracle’s Curl Care and it’s ‘Aweh, world’.

      He looked round when Dada laughed. He was pointing at something in the paper with his cigarette hand.

      ‘There are people here on the Flats who think sniffing glue can cure you of cancer, my bru!’ He shook his head. ‘We should pray for them, hey? Relieve them of their kak ideas.’ He chuckled.

      Jackal nodded. What did he care about the rubbish in the Daily Sun. He walked over to the armchair next to Dada. He picked up a pair of panties between his thumb and forefinger and held them up before throwing them on the ground.

      ‘Why is there always bleddie underwear lying around everywhere?’

      ‘You can say that again. Kwaai’s got no respect. New chick here every day. And he jumps them anywhere … the jacuzzi, the kitchen table. And he doesn’t care if I walk in on them … doesn’t miss a stroke.’

      ‘But he still goes to sleep alone every night, huh?’

      ‘Ja. Says Frendiline’s ghost lies down with him every night. He also needs some prayer, that one.’

      Jackal wondered what had really happened with Frendiline. There were rumours that Kwaai had taken a hit out on his own wife, but Kwaai’s story was that she was in a coma because of the Americans gang’s doings.

      Luckily, these were not Jackal’s worries. He was happy with where he was in life right now: watchdog over the drug runners of the biggest drug ring in Cape Town. Working for Kwaai paid well. He was full of shit, but it was a fact of life: Godfrey ‘Kwaai’ Koeries was the main brain on the Plain. And no one, not even the other gangs or the cops, tried anything with him and his crew. Too dangerous.

      The toilet