Heart of the Hunter

She had no answer to that and just stood there. Her face was expressionless, but her body felt too small to contain all she felt.

?Thank you,? she said to break the silence.

?Thobela Mpayipheli is a good man. As good as the world allows him to be. Remember that.?

* * *

He was busy putting the R 1150 GS down when he heard the drone of the helicopter coming closer.

He had battled to negotiate the steep bank of the river down toward the water, then he had ridden it up with spinning rear wheel through the grass and bushes directly under the concrete of the bridge. It would be difficult to spot there. Neither the side stand nor the main stand would work there, and he had to lay the bike on its side. It was difficult, the secret was to turn the handles up and hold the end, let your knees do the work, not your back. The big engines of the helicopter were ever nearer. Somehow or other they must have spotted him.

He placed the helmet on the petrol tank, removed the jacket and trousers? they were too lightly colored for the night. He tried to see where the aircraft was, and when he looked around the edge of the bridge, he saw it was only thirty or forty meters away, not far off the ground. He could feel the wind of the great rotors against his face, saw the red and white revolving lights, and saw through the open door of the Oryx four faces, every one beneath an infrared night sight.

* * *

Da Costa, Little Joe Moroka, Cupido, and Zwelitini waited till the Oryx landed and the great engines had quieted before jumping down.

The helicopter had landed in a piece of open veld, bordered by the river and road and thorn trees. The first thing they did was to walk to the river, drawn by the ancient magnetism of water. Behind them the main rotor turned ever more slowly and stopped. The night sounds took over, frogs that had been still, insects, somewhere far away a dog barked.

Da Costa walked to the water, opened his fly, and urinated a fat shiny stream in the moonlight.

?Hey, the farmers have to drink that fucking water,? said Cupido.

?The Boers drink brandy and Coke,? said Da Costa, and spat his chewing gum in an impressive arc.

?Not bad,? said Zwelitini. ?For a whitey?

?So, can you do better??

?Naturally. didn?'t you know we Zulus have lips like these so we can spit on whiteys and Xhosas??

?Put your money where your lips are, Your Highness.?

?Ten rand says I can do better than that.?

?Best of three.?

?Fair enough.?

?Hey what about us?? asked Cupido.

?This is the RU, my bru?. Come and spit with us.?

?Wait,? said Da Costa. ?I must radio the captain first. Tell him we are in position.?

?Take your time. The night is young.?

And so they bantered and teased and spat, ignorant of their prey only twelve meters away, unaware that one of them would not see the sun rise.

31.

She told the director in his office of Miriam Nzululwazi?s death and she could see how the news upset him, how the stress of the whole affair slowly crept up on him. The little smile was gone, the compassion and consideration for her was less, the cheerfulness had been swept away.

He is feeling the strain, she thought. The snow-white shirt had lost its gleam; the wrinkles were like cracks in his armor, barely visible.

?And Vincent?? he asked in a weary voice.

?He offered his resignation.?

?You accepted it.?

?Yes, sir.? There was finality in her voice.

The Zulu closed his eyes. He sat motionless, hands on his lap, and for a moment she wondered if he was praying, but she knew it was just his manner. Other people would have gestures or blow out their breath or sag in the shoulders. His way was to shut out the world momentarily.

?There are always casualties in our work,? he said softly.

She did not think he expected her to respond. She waited for the eyes to open, but it did not happen.

?This is the part I don'?t like. It is the part I hate. But it is inevitable.?

The eyes opened. ?Vincent.? A hand gesture at last, a vague wave. ?He is too idealistic. Too soft and emotional. I will get him a transfer. Somewhere we can channel that dedication.?

She still had no idea what to say, for her opinion differed. Vincent had failed. For her he no longer existed.

?What are we going to do with ? Mrs. Nzululwazi??

With the body? Why didn?'t he say it? She was learning a lot tonight. She saw weakness.

?I will arrange to have her sent to the morgue, sir. No questions asked.?