“You don’ t’ink,” Bjoran began in a new tone, then he appeared to change his mind. He sat back in his seat, silent.
Augarde shot him a sideways glance, shrugged, then concentrated on his driving.
“D.H.” Brown stood at his fifth floor hotel window, his hands clasped behind his back. He was clad in the yellow toweling bathrobe that the Brazzaville Hilton management lavished on its more heavily paying guests. His hair was wet and untidy from his recent shower and his face held a freshly scrubbed shine. He stared southwards out over Rapides Park, with its landscaped swathes of imported, feathery topped bamboo, and its ponds and streams and paths; out over the distant shimmering surface of Pool Malebo and its cluster of islands, all of which lay on the Zaire side of the border; out into the dimmer distance, at the haze-shrouded buildings, tiny white blobs, more imagined than seen, which was Kinshasa - and he wondered what was going on over there.
Ian Mackinson stood by the door, his hand resting lightly on the knob, as if ready to beat a hasty retreat. They were discussing the loss of contact with Eric Walton in Johannesburg. “There could be any number of reasons, sir, I grant that, but I don’t think we should discount South African involvement.”
“Because it’s their territory, you mean?”
“Not just that, sir. There are other signs. Increased
satcom
traffic between Pretoria and Casa Bianca, is one. Plus the fact that Jean-Paul Winterhoek never leaves South Africa unless it’s crucial for him to do so. At least, he never has in the past. Of late he’s been back and forth like the proverbial, sir.”
“Do you honestly believe,” asked Brown over his shoulder, “that South Africa would abduct one of
ours!”
Mackinson did honestly believe just that. But he attacked the question obliquely. “You said yourself, sir, the stakes are enormous, even for South Africa, given certain circumstances. I do not believe we can count on past performance, or past loyalties.”
“Or possible future loyalties?” put in Brown, with heavy emphasis.
Mackinson sighed. The man was impossible. Myopic. “I’m simply saying that we ought not
discount
them, sir.”
Brown’s hands did a little dance behind his back. “I take your point, Mackinson. I really do. However, as
you
said; there could be any number of reasons why we cannot raise Walton. Did you contact Sleeman in Pretoria?”
“Yes, sir. He’s on his way to Jo-burg at this moment.”
Brown nodded and turned from the window. “Then let’s wait and see, hmm? See what he has to say?”
Mackinson shook his head sadly and took his leave. Brown immediately placed a call to London and told them of his fears.
*
I stood at the window of my portacabin and watched Brook and Bjoran chivvying the men into some kind of order in readiness for the hastily organized route march out to the river. I figured that the least people there were around, the better it would be. Through the melee I could see Piet talking to Augarde, over by the ammo store. The light was too dim to see Augarde’s expression. I shifted my gaze to the hut being used by the girl and the doctor. I could see the grey blob of a face at the window, but who it belonged to, I couldn’t tell. I did not know where the pilot was, but guessed he was hanging over the latrine pit. He had picked up some kind of a stomach bug and that was where he spent most of his time.
It was close to midday and the air was heavy with moisture. Overhead, I could hear a group of colobus monkeys squabbling and screaming at each other. There was a bump of the roof and some scuffling. Unconsciously, I reached for the stick I kept handy for the purpose, and drove it at the ceiling. There was another bump and the scuffling stopped abruptly. I rested the stick back against the door jamb.
Fifteen minutes later the men siphoned into the east track at the trot, Brook in the van, Bjoran bringing up the rear. It was a further fifteen minutes before the last of them disappeared. They would be away until dusk. Now the camp was almost deserted, which was the way I needed it. Piet came loping over the clearing.
“That’s it,” he said, the sweat poring down his face, “How d’you want to play it?”
“Where’s the pilot?” I had to know for certain.
“Christ knows. Over on the pit, probably. Shall I check?”
“You’d better. How about Augarde?”
Piet smiled. “He’s briefed.”
“How did he take it?”
“Fine. Likes it, in fact.” He turned and was gone
Part of Ryan’s deal was that the whites were offered commissions with the S.A. armed forces, if they wanted it. Whilst the black rank and file would be inducted into the regiments. I did not think there would be any grumbles on that score. South Africa was to most black mercenaries, what the States is to the poorer Mexican. Piet came back a couple of minutes later, just as the girl and the doctor were stepping out of their hut.
“The pit,” Piet confirmed, his face the Victoria Falls. He stepped beside me at the window. “They’re coming.”
They, the girl and the doctor, were approaching through the gloom. That saved us one job. I could not see Augarde, but he would be somewhere close by, and ready. “Okay, Piet,” I said, “Let’s get it over with.”
Some seven hundred miles to the west of Camp-One, Jean-Paul Winterhoek had decided that enough was enough. He was walking amongst the trees in the gardens of Casa Bianca. The day was a scorcher, the sun blasting a fiery hole through a brassy sky. It was not too bad in the shade, but the flies and the mosquitoes were a persistent nuisance. He turned to head back to the house. Jan Bluthen came striding to meet him.
“It’s
“Hotel,”
sir.”
Winterhoek stopped in his tracks, a relieved smile broadening on his face. “There’s no mistake?”
“None, sir. I heard it myself.”
Winterhoek stretched his smile still further. “So it begins in earnest.”
“Yes, sir, Bluthen agreed. He proceeded Winterhoek up the steps of the patio and slid open the library doors. He had decided to save the stunner until last. “The second word was
“Bank.””
Winterhoek nodded, pulling an impressed face. “A sensible man, our colonel McCann. Inform Ryan.”
“Yes, sir.” Bluthen grinned. “The last code word was
“Railway.””
There had been many coded time-lapse intervals in the instructions Ryan had passed on the Vryburg, and for the moment the meaning of
“Railway”
would not come to Winterhoek’s mind. But he judged from Bluthen’s expression that the result was something they had not readily expected. “What is it?” he asked. Even as he spoke, however, he remembered the sentence he had himself constructed, word for word, to denote strike times:
“Railway Lines Stretch Distance Within Russian Borders,”
the first word meaning the shortest time scale; 48 hours. Before Bluthen could reply, Winterhoek went on, “By cracky! We thought he would fall our way, but I for one did not expect him to be so eager.”
“Nor I, sir. But it’s going to be tight.”
Winterhoek sat at the desk as Bluthen slid the doors closed. “Of course it’s going to be tight. But not
too
tight.” Winterhoek reached for the telephone.
Thinking aloud, Bluthen said, “As long as the Sudanese don’t decide to pull out.”
Winterhoek scoffed as he lifted the receiver. “President Nyrevy is itching to see Motanga out, and Lumimba back in. He will not pull out.” He smiled. “He may decide to throw up a denser smokescreen, however.” He began to dial, then stopped, again looking up at Bluthen. “This is hardly any investment at all for Nyrevy. He will not send his aircraft bearing Sudanese markings, naturally, however much he prefers Lumimba to Motanga. That would be asking too much. His words, not mine. No, they will be a safe, neutral grey. And Asian pilots to a man.” Winterhoek smiled again. “On the other hand, I would not put it past him to screw South African equipment and nameplates in every aircraft, as much as he can lay hands on! I would, if I were he. Spoor of that nature have to be well covered.” He jangled the telephone rest to reset the line then recommenced to dial.
“Or even,” Bluthen advanced, “paint S.A.A.F. as livery.” He smiled wryly.
Winterhoek made an elaborate pretence of shuddering. “God forbid
that!”
*
“You will live to regret this, colonel!” spat the girl.
I nodded. “Very likely.” I tossed her weapon to Augarde, who stood in the open door. To him, I said, “Go get the pilot.” He nodded and left. I turned to the doctor, who seemed about to collapse from fright. As clearly as I could, I said, “You have two choices, Doctor. As opposed to none at all. You can come with us and be useful, or you can stay with Mata Hari here.”
The girl rattled off a few terse sentences in their common language and the man stiffened. His face blanched even whiter than it had when they’d walked in to find the business ends of mine and Piet’s AK’s under their noses. It was the girl who replied.
“The doctor wishes to have nothing to do with you,” she hissed venomously.
I said, “You’ll be doing him a favor if you let him answer for himself.” Which statement was some distance from the truth. If he did come with us he would be up to his knees in bullets and blood. If he stayed, he had a chance, because no part of my thinking included killing them; either directly or indirectly. I did not think the girl realized that, despite her reply. “He stays with me!”
I shrugged. A lost cause was a lost cause. “Fair enough. We’ll put you in the ammo store when it’s cleared.” That was the only securable unit we had. “You’ll have food and drink. And just before we pull out, we’ll set you loose. It’s a hell of a walk back out of this swamp, but at least you know the way.”
“It will be tantamount to cold-blooded murder, colonel,” she sneered, “And you know it.”
“That,” I said, “depends upon how much you want to live. This place has been hoofed out of before, and without the convenience of a cleared track and road signs. You’ll do it,
major
, because you have to!”
The sneer was still on her face. Now it dripped ice. “A patently empty gesture, colonel. Assume we do make it to the elephant grass, what then? Are you suggesting we have even the
remotest
hope of reaching civilization?”
“You’ll have the chopper.”
She looked amazed. “You will leave us
that!”
I nodded. “Sure.” At that moment the pilot entered the cabin on the end of Augarde’s AK. “Welcome to the Kanyamifupa sewing circle.” It was an attempt at wit that fell way short of the mark.
“What the hell?” he began, his eyes flashing over the tableau. He did not finish his sentence, and it was much later, months, in fact, before I was to learn, or rather be in a position to guess at the thoughts that must have flashed through his mind at that moment. It has to be said, though, that if he had come right out and told me that he was actually an agent for SAI, I would not have believed him. I would have assumed that he was simply pulling the first emergency lever to show itself. Why he said nothing was because he knew not a blind thing about any of the latter developments. All he knew was that he had a cover to maintain and a story to report when and if he got the chance. All of which I found pretty unfortunate, because he could easily have saved himself. My opinion of intelligence organization field men is higher now than it was at that time.
I said, “We’re discussing options. But I don’t think
you
have one. Someone’s got to fly these people out of here. Unless,” I turned to the girl, “Unless, along with all your other talents, you can fly a helicopter.”
She ignored me, was looking at the pilot with an expression I could not fathom. She was waiting, of course, to see what his reaction would be. Which tells me now that Luang had informed her of the man’s true leanings. I think she was puzzled as to why he did not speak out there and then; why he slumped against the door jamb in an attitude of surly, outwardly indifferent acceptance. The poor sod had put the numbers together and come up with what was for him, at
his
moment in space and time, the right answer. He could not know that several extra zeros had been added to the equation. I said, “Sorry, sport, but that just about wraps it.”
Still he said nothing. He did glance at the girl and lift a shoulder. To himself, he would have been saying: Here’s my chance to wheedle myself even deeper into Luang’s organisation. Slowly, the girl dragged her eyes away from him and over to me. “What do you hope to gain from this, colonel,” she asked, some small trace of her inner confusion evident in her tone.
“Not a lot,” I said, “But more than we would have, doing it your way.”
She frowned. “Why? How?”
“The why is simple. Someone made us a better offer. The how doesn’t matter. Not to you.” To Augarde and Piet, I said, “Go get the ammo store cleared out. Then, Augarde, you take the jeep and bring the route march back in. Let’s get this thing started.”
Later that evening my portacabin was crowded. The skylight was open and the extractor fan hummed busily, doing its never-good-enough best. Since most of the smells; tobacco smoke, sweat and decay, were self-perpetuating, the atmosphere was sullied even as it was cleared. Flies buzzed everywhere and every so often there was a soggy click as one of the moth-sized bluebottles flew to a slicing death in the spinning blades. The time stood at eight-thirty-five. With me were Piet, Augarde, Bjoran and Brook, plus a couple of the section leaders; an albino Nigerian called Swafi and a Kikuyu who had once been a full sergeant with one of the Rhodesian regiments. I would have roped more section leaders in, but there was no space.