Piranha. Rudie van Rensburg

tops of the bushveld trees orange. As though they’d been waiting for this signal, the crickets and other insects began their dusk chorus. In the distance, on one of the adjacent game farms, a lion roared.

      The heat was unbearable. His torso was drenched in sweat. With winter feeling like this, he had no idea how he was going to survive another summer. He got up and took off his T-shirt, throwing it on the chair. He walked to the big acacia next to his tent. It was the only place around here he could get reasonably good reception. It was here that he usually waited for a call from Freedom when the team was out on a poaching operation.

      He called his sister. She was excited to hear his voice, though she crapped him out for a minute because she hadn’t heard it in such a long time. Then she excitedly told him about her new place and how wonderful it was to be away from their parents. She outlined her freelance gig for a major media company and how she was allowed to work from home.

      He smiled. It didn’t look like he was going to get a word in edgewise this evening. His sister was in the grip of a talking fever.

      The smile faded when he saw a flash of lights from a vehicle bumping over the veld path towards his camp. Soon he heard the car’s engine. He never had visitors at this time of night. Could it be Freedom?

      ‘I’ll call you back, Sis. Someone’s just arrived.’ He rang off.

      An unfamiliar red Ford bakkie stopped in front of his tent and Carina Vosloo got out. What the hell was she doing here? He’d seen her the day before yesterday about the masks. And Nichols was fetching them from her tomorrow afternoon.

      ‘I hope this doesn’t mean there was a break-in at the store?’ was his opening salvo. He felt uncomfortable being shirtless in front of her.

      She laughed. ‘Nope. I came to tell you I got hold of a jewel today. You might want to add it to your purchase. I brought it for you to look at.’

      Her outfit was a surprise. A halterneck top. A tight pair of shorts clinging to her hips and shapely thighs.

      Not bad for her age, he thought. He estimated she was in her mid-forties. He’d never seen her like this before. She’d always seemed quite plain when he visited the warehouse.

      She leaned over towards the passenger seat and brought forth a mask. She cocked her head towards the tent. ‘I expect you have better light in there. You’re going to need to see this in all its glory.’

      He grabbed his T-shirt off the chair. ‘Okay. Let me make myself decent.’

      She put a hand on his arm. ‘This heat is unbearable. You really don’t have to get dressed for my sake.’

      He laughed and threw the shirt back on the chair. He’d noticed her flirting with him before, but she was really turning on the charm this evening.

      ‘Okay. Let’s take a look.’

      He followed her swinging hips into the tent. No visible panty line under those tight pants. Was she going commando?

      She put the mask down on the chair next to his desk so that the lamplight fell directly on it, and then stood back.

      It was oval-shaped, not particularly big, but it had a strange golden hue to it. The eyes seemed unhappy and the corners of the mouth were turned down.

      ‘This guy looks sad,’ he said.

      She nodded. ‘It’s a burial mask from the Congo. Very, very rare. I’ve never seen one.’

      He went down on his haunches to inspect it more closely. Nothing special, but he was going to have to feign interest considering she’d driven ten kilometres into the bush to show it to him. He turned the mask over and sensed her moving away from the desk, deeper into the tent.

      ‘This place is big,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Looks comfortable, I must say.’

      He nodded. ‘I’ve been here nine years. I’ve had to make it comfortable.’

      He tapped the mask. ‘I’ll take it. How much?’

      ‘How about we discuss it over a cold beer?’

      He stood up with a smile. ‘Luckily, I have a few of those in my fridge.’

      When he turned around, she stood two metres away from him, hands on her hips. Her clothes lay in a tiny little pile on the floor. She stepped towards him.

      ‘Maybe the beer can wait.’

      * * *

      Ugandan independence in 1962 never really had any negative impact on the white community. The white farmers were full of confidence that things would continue as they had when the country was a British protectorate.

      For the rest of that decade there were no outward signs that they were wrong. There was, however, a slight flutter in the white pigeon cage when Milton Obote, the new prime minister, ousted the president and ‘appointed’ himself as the executive president. This move made him the sole ruler and turned Uganda into a one-party state.

      Smiley’s father, the most authoritative white man in the south-west, wasn’t in the least concerned about it. Obote and he were friends. The president had been on the farm a number of times. According to Smiley’s father, Obote’s plans to implement radical socialism was mere talk to pacify his more militant colleagues.

      Because of his father’s confidence, Smiley and I saw our future as being in Uganda. We were comfortable there and there were all kinds of business opportunities for budding entrepreneurs. During our final year of school in 1970, we started making all sorts of plans. A piece of unused land on Smiley’s father’s farm was going to become our vegetable farm. He approved and we started plotting things in the finest detail. We’d begin small, buy trucks as we expanded, and then we’d sell our vegetables outside the borders of Uganda.

      My father’s death from a heart attack in my matric year did nothing to stop our plans. My mother returned to England but agreed to my staying behind. There wasn’t money for university and there weren’t many job opportunities in Manchester.

      We had no idea our dreams would be shattered early in 1971.

      9

      Plumes of smoke hung around Montgomery Smith’s head like a thick bank of mist over the city on a Cape Town morning. He waved his hand to get the worst of the smoke away and looked at the two men across the enormous oak desk in his study.

      ‘Theodore is worried about the number of horns he’s having to hold in Musina,’ Montgomery said. ‘But I think it’s too much of a risk storing them here until Phan Can Dung eventually leaves for Vietnam.’

      Graeme West nodded. ‘I agree one hundred percent.’

      Wolf Breede stared into the middle distance.

      Agree one hundred percent … like a stuck record, Montgomery thought. God, the quality of his brains trust was low. One had an IQ of ten and the other was a pain in the ass. West had never had his own opinion on anything. It was important to have loyal people, but it would be great if they actually added some value. How had he managed to surround himself with such wimps?

      He sighed. ‘Problem is, Phan Can Dung doesn’t yet have a date for when he’s going back.’

      ‘Are we absolutely sure his diplomatic immunity is going to protect him from being searched at the harbour?’

      ‘Goddammit, Graeme, weren’t you listening the other day?’ Montgomery was sick and tired of having to repeat everything. ‘Yes! He’s safe. His move is going to be packed into crates, and customs isn’t allowed to touch it.’

      ‘Sorry, Montgomery, I … I was busy on the phone when you talked about it,’ West stuttered.

      ‘What happens when Phan Can Dung is gone for good?’ Wolf asked.

      Montgomery was momentarily thrown to have an intelligent question from Breede. The bearded ape was wearing funny little glasses.

      ‘New