Ivory Nation by Andy Maslen (free children's ebooks online txt) 📕

supranational groups like the UN and the EU, communists at home and abroad, and the craven, Marxist-dominated mainstream media.’

Witaarde frowned, grooving deep creases into that high, square forehead. The exact same profile as Mount Fuji, Gabriel found himself thinking.

‘The BVR is a tiny outfit, Alec. Yes, we have big plans, but outside New Hope, what are we, really? A few hundred Boers with a dream of a Volksrepubliek van Suid-Afrika. Nothing more.’

Gabriel shook his head. He reached across the table and took Witaarde’s left hand in his right. Then, improvising, he repeated the gesture with Klara’s right hand in his left.

He looked at each of them in turn, holding Klara’s eyes for a fraction longer than her husband’s.

‘Dreams build nations, Julius,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘Your dream is our dream. We are the connective tissue between dozens – hundreds – of groups like the BVR. Some bigger, some smaller, but all with the same shining dream. Surely you see that?’

‘You know what I see? I see empty glasses. Klara!’

She released Gabriel’s hand and jumped to her feet.

‘I’m sorry, Julius.’

She poured more wine and opened a second bottle.

‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked her.

‘I made a pie. That bushbuck you shot yesterday.’

Witaarde turned away, apparently satisfied.

‘Come on, Alec, let’s leave the woman to her kitchen work. There’s something I want to show you.’

Witaarde rose to his feet and Gabriel followed him from the kitchen.

They left the house by a back door. While Gabriel had been inside, the moon had risen and cast a silvery glow over the land stretching away from New Hope.

Witaarde led him to a shed in one corner of his fenced-in yard. Retrieving a bunch of keys from his shorts pocket, he unlocked a sturdy steel padlock and swung the door wide. The smell that emanated from the pitch-black interior was unmistakeable. Gabriel Wolfe was in the presence of death once more.

47

Behind him, he heard a match scraping on a striker. The flare as Witaarde lit a hurricane lamp illuminated a ghastly scene.

The body of a black man sprawled on the earth floor. The legs and arms lay at unnatural angles, as if a sadistic child had twisted the limbs of an action figure.

What remained of the head was the lower jaw. Everything above the teeth, which gleamed in the lamp’s flickering light, was gone. The back wall was spattered with blood and brain tissue.

Realising that in his role as a bagman for the Committee for Policy Progress he had no need for a strong stomach, Gabriel allowed himself to wrinkle his nose and gag at the smell, which had solidified around him like a rotting blanket.

‘Ha! You money men are all the same,’ Witaarde crowed. ‘No stomach for anything except your expense account dinners. This,’ he jabbed a finger at the corpse, ‘is where real men get their hands dirty.’

‘Who is – was he?’ Gabriel asked, letting his voice falter.

‘The latest kaffir to think he could discover our plans and get away with it. ANC probably. Stupid bastards never give up.’ He laughed. ‘They keep sending their spies and we keep killing them. I tell you, Alec, they’re easier to catch than vlei rats!’

Still chuckling, Witaarde kicked the corpse, then turned away.

‘Come on, let’s go. I thought you might like to see that. Call it my own little gesture of solidarity.’

Over dinner, and more wine, Witaarde opened up about the BVR’s plans. His eyes were hooded, the lids drooping further with each fresh glass.

‘See, Alec, when we started out we knew straight away we’d need money. Your twenty-five K is a pretty gesture, but compared to what we’re making, it’s chicken feed.’

Klara rose from the table and began clearing away the plates.

‘From your winery?’ Gabriel asked.

Witaarde guffawed.

‘You hear that, Klara? This Englishman thinks we finance the BVR selling wine!’

She laughed. Gabriel observed the way her face twitched as she followed her husband’s lead. She looked nervous. What the hell was it?

‘Not wine, then.’

‘Nah, man. Not wine,’ he slurred. ‘How about ivory?’

‘Ivory?’

‘What, are you deaf? Ivory! You know, tusks! Elephants. Here, I’ll show you.’

Witaarde levered himself to his feet and stumbled from the kitchen. Two minutes later he was back, carrying a bolt-action rifle, which he placed on the table, the muzzle pointing at Gabriel’s midsection. Beside it, he thumped down a long-barrelled revolver, though he retained his hold on the grip.

He tapped the revolver’s muzzle against the wooden stock of the rifle.

‘Dakota Arms Model 76. Takes a .450 round.’ He pointed the revolver at Gabriel. ‘Know what this is?’

Gabriel knew the model, barrel length and calibre. He’d had one pointed at him before, by a Mozambican militia commander named Mama Chissano. He hadn’t enjoyed the experience then, either.

‘A revolver?’

‘Yah. A Smith & Wesson Model 629. Twenty-three centimetre barrel, takes six .44 Magnum rounds. You miss with the Dakota, this baby’s your last chance.’

‘For hunting elephants?’

‘For hunting elephants. Take out the tusks, move them on down the line, take a cut of the proceeds. Smooth as a baby’s bum.’

‘Here in South Africa?’

Witaarde shrugged.

‘Plenty of game parks.’

‘Further north?’

Witaarde’s eyes narrowed. He gulped some more wine.

‘Why’re you so interested? You want to do some hunting?’ It came out hunnin.

‘Maybe. You know, if you are involved in ivory, we could talk more about that. We’re always interested in new sources of finance.’

Witaarde laughed.

‘Expensive business, fighting for your rights, eh?’

‘You could say that.’

Suddenly, Witaarde snapped upright in his chair. His gaze cleared and those hooded blue eyes returned to full alertness. The change in his demeanour was unnerving.

He lifted the Model 629 and touched the foresight to the tip of his nose, frowning. Then he lowered it until Gabriel was forced to look straight down the barrel. Below it, he could see the flat-topped lead noses of the Magnum rounds in their chambers.

‘Why are you here, Alec? Really?’

‘I told you. To make contact. To invite you to join us in our—’

‘Struggle, yes, I heard that part. But look at it from my perspective. You turn up in Vientiane, sniffing around