Let the River Run
Copyright© 2026 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 30
Skukuza, Kruger National Park.
The Kruger National Park was slowly beginning to resemble itself again. The scars of the flood were still visible if you knew where to look. Riverbanks had been chewed away, sections of roads still carried the muddy stains left by the floodwaters, and twisted debris remained trapped high in the branches of trees, marking just how high the water had risen.
But life was returning. Rangers were back on patrol. The tourists were filtering back into the camps. Animals had reclaimed territories disrupted by the disaster.
The sounds of generators and heavy machinery were gradually being replaced by the sounds that belonged in the bush—the calls of hornbills, the chatter of baboons, and the distant whoop of hyenas after sunset. Almost eighty percent of the park was operational again.
Only two camps still required major repairs, and roughly seventy percent of the road network had been reopened. It was nothing short of remarkable. Most of the credit belonged to Steve and his crew. They had worked themselves into the ground for weeks.
Long days. Longer nights. Countless breakdowns. Impossible deadlines. And somehow they kept going.
Of course, it helped that Gustav had appointed himself as chief supervisor, project manager, motivational speaker, quality inspector, and professional nuisance. Whether Steve appreciated Gustav’s involvement remained open for debate. Gustav certainly believed he was helping. That alone was dangerous.
Which was one of the reasons tonight’s braai had been arranged. Officially it was a thank-you gathering. Unofficially it was Gustav’s way of rewarding the crew, boosting morale, and ensuring that nobody quit before the remaining repairs were finished. Food had always been Gustav’s preferred management strategy.
Feed people enough meat and they became surprisingly cooperative.
Wolfie and I arrived shortly before sunset with a heavily loaded bakkie full of leadwood firewood.
The smell of dust and dry timber followed us as we pulled up next to the boma.
The place was already buzzing with activity. Steve’s crew had gathered around the fires with cold beers in hand.
Someone was laughing. Someone else was arguing about rugby. Some stopped to help unload the bakkie and start the fires. Soon the familiar smell of wood smoke drifted lazily through the evening air.
Nearby, Kait, Nadia and Darya were busy preparing side dishes on a long folding table. Bowls, knives, cutting boards and ingredients occupied every available surface.
From the amount of effort they were putting into it, one would think we were catering for a royal banquet rather than a group of exhausted construction workers. Wolfie climbed off the bakkie and surveyed the preparations. Then he frowned.
“Hey, these are construction guys,” he remarked. “Just hand them each a beer, some peanuts and potato chips, then load them up with pap-n-vleis.”
Nadia stopped what she was doing and fixed him with a look.
“Wolfie!” she shot back. “You are being coarse.”
“We will show them that we are refined and proper,” Kait added while slicing tomatoes. “We’re not cave dwellers from 500 BC. We are civilised.”
Wolfie looked around dramatically. The surrounding bushveld stretched away in every direction. The nearest elephant could probably hear the conversation.
“We’re in the bush,” he protested. “Not entertaining the hoi polloi, stink-rich of the world.”
Nadia immediately burst out laughing.
“Well, I got news for you, Wolfie. The words ‘hoi polloi’ come from Ancient Greek. It means ‘the many’ or ‘the common people.’ Not whatever bizarre definition you just invented.”
Wolfie looked unimpressed. “Well, here in the bush it means fancy rich people.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Before the debate could continue, Gustav entered the discussion. Which was usually the equivalent of throwing petrol onto a campfire.
“Well, here in the bush,” Gustav declared confidently, “it means those dainty, refined, finishing-school, stink-rich bitches and their ‘yes-dear’ husbands.”
Steve nearly inhaled his beer.
Gustav continued without mercy.
“They are so hoi polloi that when they’re alone with nobody around and they fart, they still say, ‘Excuse me.’”
For a second there was stunned silence. Then Steve exploded with laughter. The kind of laughter that doubles a man over. He had to put his beer down before he dropped it.
Wolfie nearly collapsed against the bakkie. Even several members of Steve’s crew started chuckling. Across the table, however, Kait, Nadia and Darya froze.
Three pairs of eyes slowly lifted toward Gustav. If looks could kill, Gustav would have instantly joined Reznikov in the afterlife.
The three women stared at him with identical expressions. Gustav suddenly discovered a deep interest in the fire. Wolfie turned toward me with a grin.
“What say you, Adrian?”
I casually reached over, stole a sip from Kait’s beer, and considered my answer carefully. Years of experience had taught me that survival often depended on recognising a battlefield and avoiding it entirely.
“Me?” I replied innocently. “I’ll just stay quiet and keep my mouth shut. I’ll stay out of that squabble. I don’t play in that horror story.”
That earned me a smile from Kait. More importantly, it prevented me from receiving the same death stare Gustav was currently enduring. A valuable tactical victory.
The conversation gradually returned to normal. People resumed talking. The women continued preparing food. Steve was still chuckling to himself. The fires crackled. The smell of meat beginning to cook drifted across the boma. For a brief moment it felt normal. Peaceful. The kind of evening everybody needed after the previous weeks.
Steve and his crew drifted towards the fires. There were three BBQ pits going with each tended to by a “expert man of the braai.” Each with his own secret recipe and choice of spices.
Kait sidled up to me.
“Should I also not drink any more beer?”
“Nah,” I replied, “you can go for it, but I fly tomorrow, so I’ll stick to Coke.”
Then I glanced at Wolfie.
Wolfie glanced at me.
Both of us knew we still had news to deliver. News that was going to destroy the relaxed mood in a matter of seconds. I cleared my throat.
“Now, Gustav, if you’re not busy, Wolfie and I need to speak with you.”
Gustav looked up. The change in his expression was immediate. The humour disappeared from his face.
“Anything wrong, Adrian?”
“There has been a development...” Wolfie replied. He glanced at me and gave a small nod.
My turn. There was no gentle way to deliver the news. No way to soften the blow. So I dropped the bomb.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Reznikov is dead.”
The effect was immediate.
Conversation died mid-sentence. Knives paused over cutting boards. Beers stopped halfway to waiting mouths. Even the laughter vanished.
Apart from Steve’s crew—making enough noise to qualify as a minor riot—every eye in our circle swung toward Wolfie and me.
A heavy silence settled over our group.
“Come again...” Kait said at last. “How is Reznikov dead?”
“Because he disagreed with something that ate him,” I replied deadpan.
Kait stared at me.
“You’d better start from the beginning,” Nadia said.
There was no way to say it. I sat down on the canvas chair next to Wolfie and started to tell them what transpired.
I told them about the endgame. Sgt. Percy Skimbleshanks’ part in Reznikov’s littoral downfall, and the intervention of the Nile Crocodile.
“I doubt if we would be able to retrieve much of his remains...” I ended.
Wolfie rummaged in his ever-present backpack, withdrew a small clear plastic bag containing the Tokarev pistol and dropped it on the table next to Kait, Nadia, and Darya.
“You might get some fingerprints and DNA off it...” Wolfie stated.
Nadia gave the bag one look and declared: “I’ve got a call to make...”
“So do I,” Kait sighed and looked at me. “So do I...”
I totally understood what Kait meant. As a Mossad field agent she needed to report in to her handler. Inwardly I chuckled. My girlfriend – the spy...
The next morning.
Both Kait and I were up long before sunrise. The camp was still wrapped in darkness, with only a faint silver glow beginning to touch the eastern horizon. The air carried that crisp pre-dawn chill unique to the bushveld, and somewhere beyond the perimeter fence a hyena called into the fading night.
Breakfast was simple: steaming coffee and rusks—or, as any self-respecting Afrikaner would insist, beskuit. We sat beside the patio table, dunking the hard rusks into our mugs and enjoying the rare quiet before the day began in earnest.
Kait, however, had come prepared. Along with the coffee she had packed a generous snack bag filled with dried sausage and neatly sliced strips of beef biltong. Snacks to tide us over till lunch.
“You know,” I said, eyeing the contents of the bag, “we’re here in the vast wilderness of the Kruger National Park, surrounded by some of the most magnificent wildlife on the continent, and you still pack beef biltong.”
Kait looked up from sealing one of the bags and shrugged.
“Well, I like the flavour of beef. The kudu, springbok, and rooibok biltong tastes a little too wild for me.”
I laughed.
“Listen to the expert field guide and conservationist.”
“Ah-ha!” she shot back immediately, pointing a finger at me. “The key word there is conservationist. The emphasis is on conservation. I don’t hunt these animals, and I certainly don’t promote hunting. My job is to conserve them so future generations can enjoy seeing them in their natural environment.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “But then explain something to me.”
The suspicious look on her face told me she already knew trouble was coming.
“You have no problem in televising a leopard taking down an impala, or a pride of lions tearing apart a buffalo. The excitement of the kill, you Game Drive Live presenters call it, but have you ever stopped to think about the consequences for the poor animal that becomes the predator’s breakfast?”
Kait rolled her eyes. “Here we go,” Kait sighed.
“No, really,” I continued. “What if that impala was an ewe nursing a lamb? Now that lamb is orphaned. It wanders around crying for its mother until it eventually starves. Or perhaps it gets picked off by the next predator that comes along. Imagine that. One minute you’re happily learning how to be an impala, and the next you’re lion chow. It’s a terrible way to start life.”
“Adrian!”
“What?”
“That’s nature.”
“Nature is horrible and cruel.”
She stared at me for a moment.
I maintained the most serious expression I could manage.
“Nature,” I added solemnly, “is basically a never-ending documentary about things trying to eat one another.”
Kait’s expression softened, but she still didn’t answer. Instead, she simply looked at me. There was a sadness in her eyes, the kind that appeared whenever people reduced the complexity of the natural world to simple cruelty.
To her, every predator and prey animal was part of a larger system. Life fed life. Death sustained life. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary.
Without saying another word, she carefully wrapped the two snack packs and placed them into her day bag. Then she picked up a flask of freshly brewed coffee and tucked it under her arm.
“Come on! You’re a helicopter pilot now, not a high and mighty lawyer back in Pretoria or Cape Town lobbying for animal rights,” she said quietly. “We need to get moving. Gustav wants that patrol out at Satara before eight.”
I watched her for a second, feeling a small stab of guilt.
Then I picked up my flight bag, stepped closer, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“I’m just messing with you, Kait.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I know.”
“Good. Because if nature really is that cruel, then I’m definitely staying in the helicopter where nothing can eat me.”
That finally earned a laugh.
“Come,” I said, grinning as we headed for the aircraft. “Let’s go fly.”
The flight to Satara and back was uneventful. Kait and I dropped the ranger patrol off at 07:33, where they were met by the local ranger supervisor for their briefing. Once they were safely on the ground, we lifted off again and headed back to Skukuza.
I had expected visitors the moment I spotted the blue-and-white AS350B3 of the SAPS parked on the apron. Official visitors almost always arrived by helicopter. The pilot and his crew looked thoroughly bored as they sat in the shade of the open cabin doors, waiting for whatever meeting had brought them here.
After exchanging a few pleasantries with the ground crew, Kait and I made our way to Gustav’s office.
There I received a surprise.
The woman standing beside Gustav was dressed in a dark business suit. She was slender, with short red hair, dark eyes, and the sort of posture that immediately told you she was used to being listened to. The moment Kait stepped through the doorway, the woman’s face lit up with relief.
Then she noticed the fading bruises on Kait’s cheek and the bandaging on her arm.
The smile disappeared.
“Ah! The two rascals return!” Gustav announced as we entered. “Adrian Grobler and Miss Kaitlyn Fourie.”
He waved toward the visitors.
“Brigadier Joe Franks, SAPS Interpol Division. Lieutenant Colonel Fisher from the SAPS Water Wing and Diving Unit.”
Then he gestured toward the woman.
“And Miss Maya Levin.”
I blinked.
The Maya Levin.
Mossad.
“Kait!” Maya exclaimed, rising from her chair. “You look much better than I expected.”
She crossed the room in a few quick steps.
“Come. You are going to tell me everything that happened.”
She made as if to lead Kait onto the patio outside Gustav’s office.
“Debriefing can wait a little while,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“Kait has other priorities at the moment.”
The look Maya gave me suggested she was not accustomed to being contradicted.
“And what priorities would those be?” she asked.
Her voice was perfectly polite. It was also cold enough to freeze water.
“Reporting on her sortie to Satara and completing her flight logbook,” I replied, matching her tone. “The paperwork comes before the storytelling.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Kait fighting a smile.
“Oh.”
Maya glanced at Kait.
“Will that take long?”
“Most of the morning,” I said. “At least until our next sortie.”
I paused.
“You are welcome to join us.”
Gustav immediately caught the sarcasm.
“Speaking of sorties,” he said, rescuing the conversation. “After the aircraft is fuelled, we’ve got a situation at Pretoriuskop. Tourist took ill. Needs transport to either Nelspruit or Phalaborwa.”
“Medevac?”
Gustav nodded.
“We take off in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“I’ll tell the ground crew to reconfigure Jessie into ambulance configuration,” Kait said, already moving toward the door.
She glanced at Maya. “You can walk with me.”
Maya followed her.
Then she stopped. “Wait. You’re a paramedic too?”
“Nope,” Kait replied with complete innocence. “But I help out where I can.”
The look on Maya’s face suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced. The two women disappeared through the doorway. I remained behind.
“So,” I said, looking at Gustav. “What gives?”
Lieutenant Colonel Fisher leaned forward. “We had divers in the water this morning at the incident site.”
“And?”
“It took over an hour because of the current and visibility, but they recovered human remains.”
The room fell quiet.
“You sent divers into crocodile-infested water?” I asked.
“There were only two crocodiles in the immediate area,” Gustav replied.
“Only two.”
“Wolfie and his crew dealt with them.”
I shook my head.
“Define dealt with.”
“They drew them upstream with bloody chum and kept them occupied while the divers worked.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “All in a day’s work for Wolfie.”
“Mr Grobler,” Brigadier Franks interjected, “we still require your statement. We’ve already taken Aaron Mholewa’s statement. From what we’ve gathered so far, it appears the inquest will be fairly straightforward.”
“Brigadier, I’d like to help immediately, but I’ve got a medevac to fly.” I picked up my flight bag. “I’ll type the statement and send it through later today. Leave your contact details with Mr. Preller and I’ll make sure it reaches you as soon as I’m back.”
Franks nodded. “That will be perfectly acceptable.”
He folded his hands on the table.
“Just stick to the facts. Who, what, where, when, and how. You know the process. Mr. Preller is a Commissioner of Oaths, so he can certify everything for us.”
“Thanks, Brigadier. I appreciate it.” I slung the flight bag over my shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“All good, Mr Grobler,” Franks replied. “Safe flight.”