Hyena Dawn (41 page)

After a few moments’ silence the Ambassador was told that his security representative could make a call to the South African Bureau of State Security. The matter would be treated as top secret and there would be no embarrassing disclosures. The Ambassador apologised for the death of the two South Africans
-
and at that point the Minister slammed the phone down.

Fry had to admit that he would have behaved in exactly the same way. The US Ambassador, Billy Halliday, vented his wrath on John Fry.

‘
Heavens, John, you guys are still playing God. I don’t know what you’re up to, I don’t want to know. But if it causes an international incident, I’ll personally see to it that you get roasted.’

‘
I must remind you, Billy, that officially I don’t exist. I’m not here. The security of this continent is a top priority with the United States. It’s not going to be another Vietnam, you must understand that. And we have no intention of letting the Russians control one of the world’s most mineral-rich continents. So we fight our war behind the scenes. People do get killed, but for you it’s rather like when you buy meat from the butcher - you just enjoy the taste, you don’t have to participate in the killing. Of course I’m sorry those South African soldiers got it, but that’s the nature of undercover work. There’ll be more deaths before this thing is over, more sacrifices.’

Billy didn’t particularly like Fry’s simile. ‘But you must be careful. The Russians are looking for trouble. We burnt them on that incident in Angola and no doubt they’re still smarting. I don’t need any embarrassing prisoners trotting out unpleasant details of the activities of the CIA.’

‘
That’s the last thing we have to worry about, Billy. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to talk to my friends down the road.’

John Fry liked Pretoria. It was a pleasant city of wide streets and many trees. Unlike the stark skyscraper ruthlessness of Johannesburg, designed exclusively to promote the getting and spending of money, Pretoria’s architecture had a soothing period flavour. Although only twenty minutes by car from Johannesburg, it had a warmer and more pleasant climate too. He walked to his car parked amongst the shadows and drove off casually. Always he had to watch. You didn’t have the luxury of carelessness when you worked in security. He didn’t have far to go, but he took a particularly circuitous route.

Eventually he came to a large British colonial house and parked next to an anonymous-looking Mercedes-Benz in the drive. He went up to the front door, waiting the customary ten minutes before being admitted. He took a deep breath as he stepped over the threshold. He was entering the headquarters of the South African Bureau for State Security.

Sarel van der Spuy was waiting for him. ‘Fuck it, Fry, you make things very difficult for me. You certainly get a star grading for intrigue. Do you realise who that lunatic of yours shot? Major “Iron Man” Viljoen. Shot straight in the head.’

Fry decided to act defensively. He had the upper hand anyway, so there was no point in overplaying.

‘
But I thought he retired a couple of years back,’ he said. ‘Evidently he met some businessmen who’d seen some strange activities in the St Lucia area. The Major flew over the place to check it out, but by the time he arrived your boys had already flown off. But you see, Viljoen was a detail man, so he checked out the whole area and found this deserted farmhouse. A few strange objects in the workshop were all the evidence he needed to call in the army.

‘
Anyway, one of your bastards came back. They were waiting for him, but he obviously knew they were there. He came in in a helicopter, but he was clever enough to land it a kilometre away. He killed a private and Viljoen, then got clean away.’

John Fry was troubled - it didn’t make sense. Rayne had never said anything about having organised his own air support.

‘
Sarel, I think we’ve got our wires crossed. It doesn’t sound like one of my guys. They would all have been together, anyway.’

‘
It’s too late to find out now, John. But I can’t believe what you’re saying. The man in the attack was white. Now what would someone like that be doing in the St Lucia area unless he was one of yours?’

‘
Could be a poacher.’

‘
Don’t be bloody stupid. Show me a poacher who’s able to take on the South African army. That guy was a pro - I’ve spoken to the guys who were there. He moved like greased lightning and he was armed with an assault rifle. Listen, John, look at what happened to us in the Seychelles, a complete bugger-up. These people you employ are mavericks, they’re completely unreliable.’

‘
No, the man I’m using is different. If it’s him there’ll be a logical explanation to all of this. What are you going to say in the press?’

‘
Routine. It was an accident. The Major thought he saw a terrorist and it turned out to be one of our own. They killed each other by accident.’

‘
Can you trust your men to keep their mouths shut?’

‘
If they don’t they’ll have their balls cut off without anaesthetic.’

‘
One more thing, Sarel. If your men run into anyone in the next week, shoot to kill.’

‘
And if they’re yours?’

‘
They’ll be expendable by then.’

‘
Remind me never to work for you, John. You’re a ruthless shit.’

John Fry left the house and lit a cheroot, his mind in turmoil. Gallagher was obviously a crafty, clever bastard. Major Long had said he was over the edge, a man punch-drunk from too much combat duty. Well, Gallagher didn’t seem much like that. He’d turned out to be a cool operator - too good for the job. The chances of success were slim enough, and the chances of getting out alive non-existent. He’d obviously realised that, and organised the helicopter accordingly.

Fry shrugged. No matter what precautions he took, Gallagher wouldn’t last long if he returned into South African or Rhodesian air space. All that mattered was that he stopped the Russians.

In the radar tower at Beira Airport, Comrade Asimov lay slumped over the book he had been trying to read. He had drunk far too much the previous evening and bitterly resented the fact that he had had to be on duty by six that morning. There were no exercises planned for that day, and no planes coming in on the blank screen; as he reasoned, his being there was a complete waste of time. After resisting the urge to be sick several times, and trying to keep awake with awful synthetic coffee, he had eventually dropped off to sleep at seven o’clock.

If he had stayed awake he would have seen the tiny dot approaching the airport from the south. At first it would have seemed that the dot’s destination was the airport, but then it would have disappeared off the screen while still some kilometres away. Now the radar screen was blank again and there was no evidence that the dot had ever existed.

The sound of footfalls on the steel ladder leading up the control tower woke him. He quickly stuffed the book under the table and took a fast swig of coffee before sweeping his hair back and gazing intently at the radar screen. He could sense that someone was coming through the trapdoor, but pretended to be locked in concentration and unaware of any other sounds.

‘
Asimov.’

His name was said quietly, so he pretended not to hear.

‘
Asimov!’

He jumped with fright, half affected and half real. As he did so, he knocked the coffee over the control panel and it dribbled over the edge onto the floor. He stood to attention and saluted his superior. ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘
Asimov, I’ve told you before, you must keep watching that screen all the time. You haven’t seen anything?’

‘
Nothing out of the ordinary, sir.’

‘
Idiots, absolute idiots. They don’t deserve to run the country, let alone live off it. One of the fools who works in the mess says he saw a giant helicopter flying near here on his way to work. Just the sort of line they like to give you, gets you all worked up for nothing. I’ll make sure the fool works hard today. Absolute nonsense, anyway, unless it was one of ours. What the hell would have the range to make it this far? It would be suicide with what we’ve got on the runway. Bloody Rhodesians aren’t that stupid. Anyway, I’d be surprised if they’ve got any helicopters left.’

Asimov laughed dutifully at the joke. His head was throbbing and all he wanted to do was sit still and not think at all.

‘
I’ll keep a look-out, sir, one can’t be too careful.’

‘
Very good, Asimov. And clean that coffee up and get this place ship-shape. General Vorotnikov is bringing that man who arrived yesterday to see the airport in all its glory. Make sure this room is so clean that I could lie on the floor without dirtying my uniform. Is that understood?’

‘
Yes, sir.’

‘
Well, don’t just stand there, you idiot. Get on the phone and call someone to clean this mess up.’

Getting the truck had been one problem, driving it was another matter. The gearbox didn’t appear to be fitted with synchromesh and each change was accompanied by nightmarish howls from the differential. At first Lois had wondered if he’d picked up a dud, but once he’d got used to the noise, the machine was all right.

Taking out the driver of the truck hadn’t been easy. He’d used the old trick of putting an obstacle in the road and jumping the vehicle when it slowed down. Then he had climbed along the roof and swung down across the cab, ripping the door open and grabbing the driver by the throat. Holding the steering wheel with one hand as the man fought against him, he’d braked, and then pushed his combat knife in smoothly below the lower ribs.

The man stopped screaming after a few minutes. Lois dragged the body out of the cab and covered it with rocks and earth. He carefully covered his tracks as he returned to the truck.

He had to get more aviation fuel for the chopper, that was all there was to it. Without it he would soon be as dead as the man he’d left carefully hidden under the earth.

The road was good, which partially made up for the dreadful springing on the truck. He bounced along in the darkness till he came to the first road-block and leered down scornfully at the black guard who came up to him. The man spoke to him in Portuguese. ‘Where’s your pass?’

‘
Where do you think?’

The guard almost snarled with anger. Lois reached inside his jacket, whipped out his Browning and shot the man in the face. Then he roared off, his back soaked with sweat.

As he had expected, the security on the fuel storage depot was far tighter than at the road-block. He’d parked the truck some distance back and leopard-crawled up near the front entrance. Now he moved in slowly and soundlessly towards the sentry post. He came at the man from behind and held a combat knife to his throat. ‘You come with me,’ he whispered in Portuguese.

The security guard dropped his weapon and walked in the direction Lois steered him. It took fifteen minutes to reach the truck. The man stank, he’d urinated in his pants with fear.

Lois indicated that he should drive the truck. ‘You drive. One wrong move and I slit your throat.’

They drove slowly through the entrance gates and past large storage tanks. They pulled up next to some hundred-litre drums of aviation fuel. Lois needed ten. He knew that the guard wouldn’t be able to load the big drums into the back of the truck by himself; he’d have to help him.

They were lifting up the second drum when the man shifted his weight and pushed the container over onto Lois. The next moment he was on him, smashing his fist into Lois’ face. Lois brought his left hand up flat and hard into the man’s crutch. The man drew back screaming and Lois crashed his knee into his skull. His adversary fell over, dead.

Lois loaded the truck by himself. It was back-breaking work, and by the time he’d got all ten drums on, he was totally exhausted, but at least the engine started easily, and he began to steer the machine towards the entrance gate. Now his progress was slow, the load of fuel on the back weighing the truck down heavily. Another guard was at the entrance. Outside, there were soldiers everywhere. Lois knew if they went for him, he was finished.