Piranha. Rudie van Rensburg

and disbelief showed on her face. ‘But why? We’re doing a damn good job here!’

      She pulled open the top drawer of her desk and took out a piece of paper. ‘I was collating our latest stats last night. Since we started three years ago, forty-six poaching rings have been nailed, thanks to our intel. Because of IESA, four hundred rhinos and more than three hundred elephants have been rescued … and that’s a conservative estimate.’

      Werner held up his hands. ‘I know. I know, Natasha. You don’t have to convince me. And they know it too. They recognise that your team has made an enormous contribution in southern Africa. But their position is that it’s time now for the local conservation authorities to take greater responsibility. They …’

      ‘They don’t have the manpower, Werner!’

      ‘Wait, you’re being too hasty. That’s just one of the dozens of reasons why they think the situation has improved enough to …’

      ‘Dozens of reasons! I’d love to hear them. Because improvement certainly isn’t reflected in the increasing number of dead rhinos.’

      He pushed the document towards her. ‘You can read this later, but you already know about the huge donations from the Dutch and Swedish lotteries and from the Howard G. Buffet Foundation to the Peace Parks Foundation and to SANParks. They believe that money’s going to put the poachers on the back foot.’

      ‘In the far-distant future perhaps. The money’s going to be used to reduce the value of horns by infusing them with a liquid that makes them useless for medicinal or ornamental use. That’s their big plan, which doesn’t actually work with those dense horns. Apparently, the local authorities want to invest in technology to monitor the rhinos, but that’s easier said than done. Think of all the manpower and know-how that requires. You know how slowly the bloody wheels of conservation turn. There’s always talk of long-term plans, and the other plans they unveiled before have come to nothing. Meanwhile, the poachers carry on as always. Last year more than a thousand rhinos were killed. We’re at seven hundred this year and it’s only July! Where’s it going to end, Werner?’

      He knew she was right, but he ploughed on. ‘There are signs that South Africa is considering donating stockpiled rhino horn to the Asians to bring down its value.’

      ‘Impractical. It’s a temporary solution.’

      ‘They say there have been diplomatic negotiations in the East to start educational programmes. People need to be informed that poachers are wiping out an endangered species. But also that rhino horn doesn’t cure cancer, as some believe.’

      ‘They’re dreaming if they think they’re going to stop the poaching train that way! Education programmes have bugger-all power against the horn mafia’s marketing. There’s just too much money at play.’

      Werner motioned helplessly towards the document again. ‘IESA’s donors are at the forefront of negotiating legalising rhino-horn trade with other pressure groups. They believe it will benefit South Africa and the rhinos. Foreign currency will stay in the country and provide money for rhino conservation.’

      Natasha’s eyes were blazing. ‘That’s not going to stop poaching! They’re underestimating the demand for rhino horn among millions of people in the East. In any case, how long is it going to take the world to agree on legalising rhino-horn trade? By the time that happens, there’ll be no rhinos left.’

      He sighed again. ‘I know. You’re right. But we’re not going to convince them. Fact of the matter is their focus has shifted to South America. Various monkey species threatened in the Amazon rainforests. I get the impression the big donors are putting pressure on Tim to help with problems closer to home.’

      ‘So the dozens of reasons in this document are just lip service to justify the shift to South America?’

      ‘Exactly. Nothing’s going to change their minds.’

      She leaned forward over the desk. ‘This means we’re going to have to fire people. And stop using the helicopter. We’ll become one of the many toothless organisations who make zero difference because they have zero money.’

      For the first time since he’d met her, he saw her eyes shine with tears. It made her look defenceless, vulnerable.

      * * *

      The Baganda hero-worshipped white people back then. One day when Smiley and I were at the huts where the farm labourers stayed, the father of one of our friends drew us aside with a frown.

      ‘You’re wazungu. You need to start thinking and behaving like wazungu. You will be respected, blessed, honoured with gifts. You don’t belong here in our hut with our son. You need to keep your distance.’

      This conversation came to inform my view of the world. I began to believe that we white settlers were a cut above them. It helped me process Joseph’s death. No one but Smiley ever referred to it again. Joseph’s father, a shepherd, had simply been informed that his son had made off.

      I laughed along when Smiley made jokes about the incident. Smiley had become my hero: the hardy farm boy with the big smile and a certainty about how things worked in Africa.

      4

      The shaft in which they stored the horns was two-and-a-half metres deep. Freedom stood at the bottom while another man passed them to him. They stashed the two guns in the shaft and then shifted the heavy steel cover over the opening again.

      Theodore secured it with locks attached to four corner pegs sticking up about ten centimetres above ground. They pulled a big plastic sheet over it, used grass brooms to sweep sand and leaves over that, and then packed logs on top.

      Theodore nodded his satisfaction, then handed the money over in individual envelopes, which were received with wide smiles.

      ‘See you guys in a week’s time,’ he said to Freedom.

      ‘We’ll be here,’ Freedom reassured him.

      They piled into the bakkie, laughing and joking. As the vehicle drove off, the engine protested under its heavy load of wood. Theodore watched it leave with a frown. How many more times would they be able to poach in the Kruger under that ruse?

      Next time would be the last time, he decided. Time for a new strategy … another strike in Bubiana in Zim, perhaps.

      He walked to his tent to fetch a cold beer from the little camping fridge. He sat down in a camping chair and took a long drink. Around him, the quiet of the bush was disturbed only by the soft hum of the generator.

      Usually, he was able to relax, but the great number of horns in the shaft made him uneasy. Billions of rands’ worth of the stuff. He’d received a message from Cape Town to hang on to them for a while, which made him even more uneasy. He’d never had to store this many horns for this long in the nine years he’d been at it. But Cape Town was waiting for the right moment to ship the horns. A risk-free option was about to present itself.

      He slapped a mosquito on his forearm and took another sip of beer. The great responsibility to hang on to the stash here and then get it to Cape Town safely weighed on him. He’d have to do the driving himself. He couldn’t trust Nichols with such valuable cargo – he was a reckless driver.

      Besides, he had no idea what he was transporting along with the load of curios.

      Theodore dug in his pocket when he heard a message come in on his phone. It was Freedom, thanking him for the R500 bonus he’d put into each of their envelopes.

      Theodore looked at his phone pensively. Freedom Chiweshe … their greatest asset.

      They’d hand-picked him nine years earlier. He was a leader of one of Zimbabwe’s zebra gangs. His deft knife work meant he could part a zebra from its skin in five minutes. His knife skills meant he didn’t waste time, as other rhino poachers did, sawing through the horn or trying to hack it off with a panga. A rhino’s horn, unlike a buck’s antlers, doesn’t have a solid core of bone.