Black Horn by A. J. Quinnell

light to an area away
from the main terminal. The police car was waiting and another civilian
Land-rover. The steward lowered the steps and within minutes two men had
climbed aboard, both white. One was in the uniform of an Inspector of Police
and the other was clad in the typical clothes of a white farmer: khaki shorts,
khaki shirt and rough suede ankle boots. The farmer carried a large canvas bag.
    Maxie
knew them both. The farmer was his cousin. The weapons were in the bag.
Although he had not seen his cousin for more than fourteen years, they greeted
each other casually, as if it had only been yesterday. It was the way of
Rhodesians. The Inspector was in his early fifties. He shook Maxie's hand
warmly and Maxie said, "This is a surprise."
    The
Inspector said, "I guess it must be. I decided to stay on for a year after
Independence. At first, things were rough but I stuck out a second year and
then things improved, so I'm still here."
    Maxie
grinned. "Christ! They even made you Inspector." He turned to Creasy
and said, "This is Robin Gilbert. We were at school together." He
then introduced the Inspector to Gloria, who had spent the short journey
reading the local newspaper.
    The policeman said, "I understand you're going straight on to Vic Falls, so
let's get this business over with."
    The
farmer lifted the canvas bag on to the saloon table and unzipped it. Creasy
took out the sheaf of papers that Ndlovu had given him in Harare, and passed
them to Robin Gilbert. It took ten minutes for Gilbert to check the weapons
against the licences. He then countersigned the licences and handed them back
to Creasy, saying, "Mr Creasy, whenever you or Maxie or Michael Creasy are
carrying one of these guns, always have the relevant licence on your
person."
    "Understood."
    Gloria
was looking at the assortment of rifles and pistols. She said, "God
Almighty! There's only three of you. This is enough for a small army."
    Creasy
explained. "They serve different purposes for different occasions. We're
not going to carry them all around at the same time." He pointed.
"That's a high-velocity rifle for long-range. Next to it is a lightweight
.22 with silencer. Those other two rifles are AK47S for close work. The pistols
are Colt 1911s and very effective." He picked up one of the AK47S and one
of the pistols and put them back into the canvas bag, together with two of the
licences, and said to the farmer, "Please be sure they get to Michael in
Harare before nightfall."
    The
farmer nodded. "I'll be there by late afternoon." He had a small
battered satchel over one shoulder. He lifted it off and tossed it to Maxie and
said, "Biltong. Made from young kudu."
    Maxie's
eyes literally sparkled with pleasure as he unstrapped the satchel and lifted
out what looked like two kilos of dark leather.
    "What
the hell is that?" Gloria asked.
    Creasy
explained. "It's dried and salted meat. What we call 'jerky' in
America. Over there, we make it mostly with beef, but here they use game. You
might say it's an acquired taste, but a man could live in the bush for many
days on that much biltong and nothing else except water."
    The
farmer picked up the canvas bag, made his farewells and left. The policeman
gestured to Creasy, who followed him down the aircraft. Once out of earshot, he
said, "I understand you're going straight from here to Vic Falls."
    "That's
correct."
    "I'm
going up there today myself, to do a couple of weeks' duty in the area."
    "Was
that a sudden decision by Ndlovu?"
    "I
guess so. I got the orders last night."
    "He's
sending you up there to keep an eye on us?"
    Gilbert
shook his head. "I think not. It would be a waste of time, my trying to
keep an eye on you two in the bush... You'd lose me in about sixty seconds...
No. Ndlovu knows that I was friendly with Maxie. It makes sense to have someone
like me close to the area. Maxie's more likely to confide in me than in some
black policeman he doesn't know."
    "Sounds
likely," Creasy said. "So, you'll base