He’d spent months studying his man, his habits, his strengths, and especially his weaknesses. Now, he had to think about his future. The man with the tattoos, the Russian, had approached him. He made the deal. He seized the moment. He would manage Botlhokwa later. With the Finals of the Cup matches beginning soon, there would be many new opportunities…who knew? How was he to know that the carrier had rubbish in the boot? How could he guess the men would shoot him? Were they stupid? Idiots.
But first there were loose ends to tie up. He needed to find a likely candidate for Botlhokwa. He’d find a fall guy. That should not be too difficult. There were many big, slow, men in his employ. He just needed to choose one and set him up. Perhaps Cunningham would fit the bill. That would surely shake up the boss. Then he would see to the Russian and other opportunities that might become available.
***
Sanderson returned to her house for lunch. Ordinarily, she would have packed something in the battered tin box with the picture of the Royal Family on it. Her grandmother had stood with thousands of others in the late forties to observe this great Kgosi , King George the Sixth, his queen, and two young daughters. She spoke as if she had somehow known them personally.
“You know,” she would say looking closely at her three year old granddaughter, “That Group Captain Peter Townsend, he was a fine catch for sure. I see him moving around in the background with the royal people. He is like a leopard that can’t get to the antelope because of the lion. That Princess Margaret, she should have made her parents see that.” She shook her head. “So sad.”
Sanderson’s grandmother was a romantic but wholly ignorant of the ins and outs of English royal politics. But she had her souvenir of that momentous visit, a square tin box that came with hard candy in it originally. She later gave it to Sanderson to use as a lunch pail on her first day of school. Sanderson had used it through her school days to carry her noon meal and later, as an adult, a place to put her meager luncheon. But today, running late and in a hurry, she had left home without it. Besides, she wished to check on her son, Michael, who lingered on, his pneumonia held at bay by antibiotics. She wrestled again with the dark notion that surfaced from the depths of her subconscious and plagued her; the idea, that perhaps these antibiotics were not such a good thing after all; that wouldn’t it be better if Michael’s long struggle with the effects of HIV/AIDs were to end now, quietly, peaceably? She flushed with guilt at the thought and pushed the notion back down in the recesses of her brain where it had come from. She would like to have it erased but it seemed that once an idea planted itself in your mind, it received a permanent residence permit and would stay forever.
She parked next to her red pickup, her bakkie , and smiled. Restoring the old Toyota HiLux had been Michael’s last project. If he died, it would be his memorial.
Not if .
She wiped her eyes and stepped down from the Land Rover she now drove as the new superintendent of her game ranger station and turned to enter her house.
“You…woman.”
She spun to see who called to her. It was neither a voice nor a face she recognized.
“Who is it?”
“You do not know me and you will forget you have seen me, you see, but I bring a message of importance to you.”
“A message? What sort of message, and who are you that you bring me messages?”
The man stepped forward and stood very close to her. Too close for comfort, much too close for propriety.
“You are wanting to trace the vehicle that might be related to the death at the game park. Is that not so? It is advisable that you no longer do this. There might be consequences.”
“I do not accept messages from strangers unless they identify themselves, and I do not accept threats from anybody, and I do not know what you are talking about.”
Her
But first there were loose ends to tie up. He needed to find a likely candidate for Botlhokwa. He’d find a fall guy. That should not be too difficult. There were many big, slow, men in his employ. He just needed to choose one and set him up. Perhaps Cunningham would fit the bill. That would surely shake up the boss. Then he would see to the Russian and other opportunities that might become available.
***
Sanderson returned to her house for lunch. Ordinarily, she would have packed something in the battered tin box with the picture of the Royal Family on it. Her grandmother had stood with thousands of others in the late forties to observe this great Kgosi , King George the Sixth, his queen, and two young daughters. She spoke as if she had somehow known them personally.
“You know,” she would say looking closely at her three year old granddaughter, “That Group Captain Peter Townsend, he was a fine catch for sure. I see him moving around in the background with the royal people. He is like a leopard that can’t get to the antelope because of the lion. That Princess Margaret, she should have made her parents see that.” She shook her head. “So sad.”
Sanderson’s grandmother was a romantic but wholly ignorant of the ins and outs of English royal politics. But she had her souvenir of that momentous visit, a square tin box that came with hard candy in it originally. She later gave it to Sanderson to use as a lunch pail on her first day of school. Sanderson had used it through her school days to carry her noon meal and later, as an adult, a place to put her meager luncheon. But today, running late and in a hurry, she had left home without it. Besides, she wished to check on her son, Michael, who lingered on, his pneumonia held at bay by antibiotics. She wrestled again with the dark notion that surfaced from the depths of her subconscious and plagued her; the idea, that perhaps these antibiotics were not such a good thing after all; that wouldn’t it be better if Michael’s long struggle with the effects of HIV/AIDs were to end now, quietly, peaceably? She flushed with guilt at the thought and pushed the notion back down in the recesses of her brain where it had come from. She would like to have it erased but it seemed that once an idea planted itself in your mind, it received a permanent residence permit and would stay forever.
She parked next to her red pickup, her bakkie , and smiled. Restoring the old Toyota HiLux had been Michael’s last project. If he died, it would be his memorial.
Not if .
She wiped her eyes and stepped down from the Land Rover she now drove as the new superintendent of her game ranger station and turned to enter her house.
“You…woman.”
She spun to see who called to her. It was neither a voice nor a face she recognized.
“Who is it?”
“You do not know me and you will forget you have seen me, you see, but I bring a message of importance to you.”
“A message? What sort of message, and who are you that you bring me messages?”
The man stepped forward and stood very close to her. Too close for comfort, much too close for propriety.
“You are wanting to trace the vehicle that might be related to the death at the game park. Is that not so? It is advisable that you no longer do this. There might be consequences.”
“I do not accept messages from strangers unless they identify themselves, and I do not accept threats from anybody, and I do not know what you are talking about.”
Her
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