‘What is it, the fourth sighting of Emil Coetzee in as many weeks?’ Joseth said, not attempting to make it a joke. He continued to stand because Rutherford had not offered him a seat.

‘Yes. But I called The Organisation, and they informed me that Emil Coetzee has not been to work since the ceasefire was announced. That he, in fact, seems to have resigned from his position.’

‘I see,’ Joseth said, his eyes not giving away exactly what it was that he saw.

‘I don’t need to tell you how delicate this matter is.’

‘Of course.’

‘I have called you in because I need to work with someone I can trust on this.’

‘Of course.’

Rutherford stood up and placed the pencil back in the box. Surely he could handle whatever came next without finding comfort in a sharpened pencil. He motioned for Joseth to leave the office, and followed him out. He was all but out of the door when he went back to his desk and picked up the sharpened HB pencil and placed it carefully in his breast pocket. Just in case.

Rutherford and Joseth followed the directions contained within the bush telegraph until they found themselves parking their government-issued bakkie outside the first homestead of a middle-of-nowhere village that lay on the outskirts of the Matopos National Park. Without being summoned, two mujibhas materialised, seemingly out of nowhere, and led Rutherford and Joseth to the beige bakkie that was parked at the edge of far-reaching bush. The two mujibhas then vanished, the veld surrounding them before they could be asked any questions. It was moments like these that reminded Rutherford that the wild savannah was home to more than just wildlife.

The beige bakkie looked very much like Emil Coetzee’s, but to be sure, Rutherford opened the glove compartment of the vehicle, which had not been locked by whoever had parked it there. Before he opened the glove compartment, Rutherford patted his breast pocket: one, to make sure that the sharpened pencil was still there; and two, to steady a hand he strongly suspected was trembling. In the glove compartment was a driver’s licence belonging to Emil Coetzee. Happy to see that his hand was stable, Rutherford handed the piece of paper to Joseth, who read it, and handed it back to Rutherford without saying anything. Rutherford placed the driver’s licence back in the glove compartment, straightened out of the bakkie, and closed the door. Both men looked at the veld surrounding them. Besides the village behind them, all there was, as far as the eye could see, was lush and green-gold elephant grass, dotted here and there with stunted trees that were reaching out to each other.

Although it was well after three o’clock in the afternoon, the sun in the sky was still punishing, and probably in its most unfriendly position. There was not the slightest hint that within the hour, everything would start cooling down as the day thankfully welcomed dusk. This type of unforgiving heat probably meant that the meagre rainfall the region had enjoyed thus far would constitute the entire rainy season. The lush and green-gold elephant grass would soon succumb to a drought that would render it dry, blond and brittle.