The equipment he had brought in that morning, either in his supposed lunch bag or inside the tight Y-front underpants he wore beneath the boxer shorts, was almost expended. The tough dive-watch was back on his wrist, his belt round his waist and his knife up against the small of the back, out of the way but easy to reach. The bandage, sticky plaster and the rest were in the flat pouch forming part of his belt.
He checked the peaks of the hills again, altered course by a few degrees and stopped, tilting his head until he heard the gurgle of the flowing water ahead. He came to the stream’s edge, backtracked fifteen yards, then stripped to the buff, retaining only belt, knife and Y-fronts.
Across the crops, in the dull, numbing heat, he heard the first baying of the hounds pounding towards him. What little off-sea breeze there was would take his odour to the muzzles of the hounds in a few more minutes.
He worked carefully but fast, until he was satisfied, then tiptoed away towards the stream, slipped into the cool water and began to let the current take him, slanting across the estate towards the airfield and the cliff.
Despite his assertion that the killer dogs would never touch him, van Rensberg had wound all the windows up as he drove slowly down one of the main avenues from the gate into the heartland.
Behind him came the deputy dog-handler at the wheel of a truck with a completely enclosed rear made of steel-wire mesh. The senior handler was beside him in the Land Rover, head stuck out on the passenger side. It was he who heard the sudden change in pitch of his hounds’ baying, from deep-throated bark to excited yelping.
‘They have found something,’ he shouted.
Van Rensberg grinned.
‘Where, man, where?’
‘Over there.’
McBride crouched in the rear, glad of the walls and windows of the Land Rover Defender. He did not like savage dogs, and for him twelve was a dozen too much.
The dogs had found something all right, but their yelping was more from pain than excitement. The South African came upon the entire pack after swerving round the corner of a peach orchard. They were milling around the centre of the track. A bundle of bloody clothes was the object of their attention.
‘Get them into the truck,’ shouted van Rensberg. The senior handler got down, closed the door and whistled his pack to order. Without protest, still yelping, they bounded into the rear of the dog-lorry and were locked in. Only then did van Rensberg and McBride descend.
‘So, this is where they caught him,’ said van Rensberg.
The handler, still puzzled by the behaviour of his pack, scooped up the bloodstained cotton blouse and held it to his nose. Then he jerked his face away.
‘Bloody man,’ he screamed. ‘Chilli powder, fine-ground green chilli powder. It’s stiff with the stuff. No wonder the poor bastards are screaming. That’s not excitement. They’re in pain.’
‘When will their muzzles work again?’
‘Well, not today, boss, maybe not tomorrow.’
They found the cotton pants, also impregnated with chilli powder, and the straw hat, even the canvas espadrilles. But no body, no bones, nothing but the stains on the shirt.
‘What did he do here?’ van Rensberg asked the handler.
‘He cut himself, that’s what the swine did. He cut himself with a knife, then bled over the shirt. He knew that would drive the dogs crazy. Man-blood always does when they’re on a kill patrol. So they would smell the blood, worry the fabric and inhale the chilli. We have no tracker dogs until tomorrow.’
Van Rensberg counted up the items of clothing.
‘He also stripped off,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for someone stark naked.’
‘Maybe not,’ said McBride.
The South African had kitted out his force along military lines. They all wore the same uniform. Into canvas mid-calf combat boots they tucked khaki drill trousers. Each had a broad leather belt with a buckle.
Above the waist each man had a shirt in the pale African-bush camouflage known as ‘leopard’. Sleeves were cut at the mid-forearm, then rolled up to the bicep and ironed flat.
One or two inverted chevrons indicated corporal or sergeant, while the four junior officers had cloth ‘pips’ on the epaulettes of their shirts.
What McBride had discovered, snagged on a thorn near the path where evidently a struggle must have taken place, was an epaulette, ripped off a shirt. It had no pips.
‘I don’t think our man is naked at all,’ said McBride. ‘I think he’s wearing a camouflage shirt, minus one epaulette, khaki drill pants and combat boots. Not to ment
ion a bush hat like yours, major.’