The Disappeared (32 page)

‘Why don’t we
just wait here,’ Mrs Sacks said. A look of deep concern furrowed her forehead. ‘What
if it’s dangerous to go outside Bishop?’ She turned to her husband. ‘Surely
somebody will send rescue teams. How long has it been already? Sooner or later
we
will
be rescued, won’t we?’

Since the
meeting in the interrogation room, Coetzee had arrived at a similar conclusion
to Duggan. He realised deep inside that no rescue teams would be coming for
them. At all. It was a disturbing acknowledgment but a necessary one. Coetzee
realised however that he couldn’t allow the already terrified survivors to know
this. ‘I realise what you’re saying, Maureen. I just feel that we have no time
to waste. We cannot be sure that the authorities even know of our dilemma. The
sooner we’re rescued ... the better our chances of survival. Okay?’ Mrs Sacks
nodded meekly. ‘
Oraait
. Now as I said, we have another option.’ He
looked at his citizens expansively. ‘As soon as everyone gets back here. As
soon as we’re all together again, our other option is to evacuate everyone as
one.’ Like a Mexican Wave hopeful anticipation surged through the restaurant.
There was excited babbling as everyone discussed this new option. Coetzee had
considered taking a vote. But it was obvious which was the preferred option. ‘Right.
Well, I don’t think we need to discuss this any further. It looks like we’ve
all decided on our next course of action.’ Coetzee turned to Jansen. ‘Sergeant,
I want you to –’

‘No-one’s
going anywhere.’ Mr Jones stood in the doorway, bleeding from his nose. His
appearance shocked everyone into silence. ‘They blocked off all the access
roads. We’ve been locked in, dear citizens. Like rats in a cage.’

The long
wood-panelled conference room is hot and stuffy. The humid darkness is broken
only by the dappled beam of a projector. A large white screen has been pulled
from the ceiling. Images are now being projected onto it.

At the
opposite end of the room – at the head of a heavy rectangular table – sits a
large black man. He is the Minister of Defence. One of the newest members in
the cabinet of the Republic of South Africa. Behind him are four black men in
expensive Italian suits. They are standing rigidly with hands folded in front
of them. On the right-hand side of the large black man sits another man. He is
white and his suit is not from Italy. He looks like a scientist –which is
exactly what he is. Immediately to the Minister’s left a uniformed man in his
late fifties is seated. He is a Lieutenant Colonel. He is pale. And sweating
profusely. His eyes are averted.

In a
darkened corner of the room, behind the minister, stands a man dressed
completely in black. He wears what appears to be a tunic. His face is dark. His
expression cold and hard. There are cabinet ministers in the room. Scientists.
And high-ranking military officers. Yet he is obviously the one in charge.

The
Minister now leans towards the scientist on his right. He whispers in his ear.
‘Why are the scenes so fuzzy?’ It is meant as a whisper but the words make
everyone in the room turn towards the Minister. If he had been anyone else his
words would have been met with stern admonition.

Aware of
all the eyes on him, the scientist exercises additional effort to ensure his
voice is maintained at whisper level. ‘The camera was coated with a protective
layer of plastic. It’s an added precaution.’

The
Minister nods. Uncomprehendingly. If he gives any extra thought to the
confusing explanation it soon disappears as the images on the screen consume
his attention.

It is the
outside of a house. A pleasant upper-middle-class sort of house. There is a
large verdant lawn. As the camera jerks to and fro there is a momentary flash
of bright orange and yellow flowers. Geraniums? The focus shifts as the
cameraman slowly walks up to the front door. It is open. There is the muffled
sound of his footsteps as he enters the house. And a grey blur as the video
camera automatically adjusts to the darkened interior. The unknown cameraman
moves through the house down a long corridor. The bedrooms. The first bedroom
contains nothing. The second one is a different story. The bed is dishevelled.
And bloody. There is a shape underneath the heavily clotted linen. A hand
reaches out from behind the camera and moves the sheets aside. A horribly
contorted face of a child stares into the camera. The eyes are frozen in glassy
horror. The mouth is twisted into an eternal scream.

‘Jesus
Christ.’ It is the Minister. He averts his eyes and breathes heavily.

The
cameraman now moves into another bedroom. There are two dead people in this
one. The parents. He moves closer. The wife is lying draped over the edge of
the bed. She tried to escape. Her fingers are dug into the luxurious carpet
that covers the floor of their room. A few centimetres from her right hand a
broken nail is embedded in the thick carpet. The Minister curses under his
breath. The focus now shifts towards the husband. He is lying on his back. His
right hand is gripped around his own throat. A thick yellow-green substance
covers his cheek, his neck and the linen next to his head. It has congealed and
hangs from his mouth in a solid sheet. The cameraman extends a hand and moves
the husband’s head. The yellow-green mass shivers like jelly.

‘Dear God,
man. That’s enough. Stop that thing.’ The minister sounds sick in the dark. The
images cease. A few seconds later the lights go on.

In the
pleasant glow of the overhead lights the men around the conference room stare
at each other. Ashen. Rattled. Terrified.

No-one
speaks.

‘So, what’s
between you and that guy?’

Lindiwe and
Duggan were sitting in his room – in the house he inherited from his mother. Lindiwe
was sprawled across his unmade bed, her legs folded under her body. Duggan was
seated at his untidy desk still littered with the Miller Lite bottles and the
plate bearing the half-eaten slices of dried pizza.

Lindi looked
at Duggan with barely concealed irritation. ‘Which guy? Josh?’

Duggan threw
his hands up in the air. ‘Oh! Josh! Is it “Josh” now?’ He made exaggerated
quivering motions with his body and wrapped his arms around himself rolling his
eyes over. His voice rose at least two octaves. ‘Josh. Josh Josh. Oohooo.
Jooooosh.’

Lindiwe wasn’t
sure who Duggan was trying to mimic but to her he looked like a queen at a gay pride
parade. ‘Excuse me,’ she said curtly, ‘are you jealous? Please don’t tell me
you’re jealous.’ She fixed him with a stern look, little clenched fists on her
hips. ‘Don’t waste my time with your little childish games, Duggan. We’ve got
far more important things to deal with than your
flipping
insecurities.’
Normally she would have found Duggan’s antics amusing but she
was
feeling slightly defensive. She couldn’t deny that Duggan’s accusations had hit
a nerve. Or that the mere mention of Joshua’s name had sent her heart
fluttering. She felt both confused and guilty.
Gogo
was

(
dead
)

gone. Most of
the people she had come to know and love had mysteriously disappeared. And the
little town that had become her home had been devastated. And here she was ...
falling in love? She had no right to feel the way she did. She had no right
whatsoever to fall in love with a strange boy in the Bishop prison cells. Yes. Okay.
There. She admitted it. She was falling in love with Joshua. Or something like
it. Whatever it was, it felt good. But at the same time it also evinced a
torrent of self-condemnation. Oh damn! Why did –

‘What was
that?’ She looked blankly at Duggan. She had seen his mouth moving but had not
heard a single word.

‘I said, I’m
not
insecure.’ Duggan was wearing his
fuck you
face. ‘Don’t flatter
yourself,
girlfriend
. What do I care?’

Lindiwe
reached out and placed a delicate finger on Duggan’s arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’m
feeling a bit touchy. You don’t blame me, do you?’ She gave him an encouraging
smile. ‘You will always be my number one boy, Duggie.’

‘Yeah well,’
Duggan said doing his best to play the long-suffering victim, ‘maybe you can
act like it sometime.’ He looked at her with doe eyes. ‘A kiss would make it
all better. A blowjob would be even –’

‘Duggan!’ She pinched
his arm. He exaggerated pain. ‘Come now. Let’s get going. What do you know? Do
you have any ideas? Or was this just another lame attempt to get me here alone.’

Duggan gave her
a sheepish smile. He sighed and stared into empty space for a moment. He was
serious once more. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe ...’ He looked at Lindiwe. There
was something in his eye. She saw a wizened maturity there that surprised her. For
a brief shooting second she saw the man that he could one day become. She
smiled tenderly at her foolish friend, hoping he didn’t see the tears that
threatened to force their way to her eyes.

‘You’re
alright, Mr Wayne Duggan. You know that?’

‘Huh?’ He
looked at her in surprise. ‘Thanks baby. You are too. In fact, you’re way more
than just alright.’ Two silly kids in their mid twenties stared at each other,
lost in private sentimentality. Duggan broke the spell. ‘Okay. Let’s get his
show on the road.’ He stood up and paced the littered confines of the room. He
hummed underneath his breath gathering his thoughts. He twirled the fingers of
both hands at his temples as if adjusting his thoughts with a mental wrench. He
jumped up and landed before Lindiwe. ‘Okay!’ She smiled – as she always did –
at his dramatics. ‘Tell me something. What could have caused this? What could
have possibly messed up this little town – the way it is right now?’

Lindi waited
in silence. Did Duggan expect an answer? ‘Well, Dugg, I –’

‘What ... is
the wrong question.’ He paused for dramatic effect. Then creased his face in
uncertainty. ‘Well, I mean ... what is also of course ... a relevant question.
What I mean to say is –’

‘Duggan. Is
this going anywhere?’

‘Okay. Okay.’
He took a deep breath. ‘The question, my dear Lindiwe, is not
what
caused all this ... but
who?
’

‘Huh?’

Duggan charged
at his closet, flung it open and extracted a copy-paper box. It was overflowing
with papers. THUD! He slammed it down on the floor. And looked at her fiercely.
‘Lieutenant Colonel George Meyer.’ He held up both arms in triumph.

Lindiwe stared,
frowning confusion at Duggan. ‘Lieutenant ... uh ... what?’

‘Lieutenant
Colonel George Meyer, my dear,’ he said expansively. ‘Lieutenant Colonel George
bloody Meyer.’

‘What? Are you
saying this ... this man ... is behind all this?’

‘Well, yes ...
I ... I think so ... I mean.’ When he saw the waning enthusiasm in Lindiwe’s
eyes Duggan quickly continued. ‘Just listen to me. Give me a moment. And just
listen. This is not some half-baked idea, okay. I’ve got proof ... kind of.’

Lindiwe
manoeuvred herself towards the headboard of Duggan’s bed and leaned against it.
She grabbed a pillow and hugged it against her chest. ‘Okay. Captive audience.’

‘Good.’ He
looked down at the box stuffed with papers. ‘Damn, am I glad I kept all this
shit.’ He picked up the box and placed it on his desk. Two bottles of Miller
Lite fell over. One tumbled from the desk and bounced harmlessly on the floor
before rolling into a corner. ‘I’ve been keeping my eye on our G.I. Joe for a
while now. He’s got quite a CV, let me tell you that.’ Duggan rummaged through
the box throwing out some papers on the floor while placing others on his desk.

Lindiwe looked
amused. ‘Duggan, what is this? You keep papers on high ranking military
officers.’ She shook her head. ‘You need to get out more.’

He looked up
at her. ‘It’s part of my work as editor of the local chapter of
The Cutting
Edge.
’

‘Chapter?’

‘Yeah, sure. It’s
an international collection of websites. Like a web ring. We investigate
phenomena that the mainstream press are unable – or unwilling – to investigate.’
He looked at her intensely ... then continued his rifling. ‘But then what do
you expect? The media is controlled by forces that would rather keep the truth
from you.’

Lindiwe placed
her hand over her mouth and giggled. ‘Duggan! I didn’t know you were a
conspiracy theorist.’

He looked at
her with a gleam in his eye. ‘Hah! There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’ He pointed
a finger at her. ‘But let’s just get one thing straight. So-called “conspiracy
theorists” is what the establishment media calls us. It makes it easy for them
to dismiss us. And make us appear like a bunch of crackpots.’ He puffed his
chest with pride. ‘We call ourselves
Frontline Journalists
. On the
Cutting
Edge
.’

Lindiwe stared
at Duggan. Bemused and speechless.

Duggan
continued rummaging through the box’s contents. ‘Oh yeah. And we got some
serious fire power. The guy that runs the New York chapter is a former reporter
for the
New York Times.
The guy in Denver is a Doctor of Philosophy. We
also got guys in London, Glasgow and Dublin as well as on continental Europe.
The dude in London is a published author. Two books. And then we also have two
guys in Australia. Yeah mate,’ Duggan exclaimed in an extremely bad Ozzie
accent. Lindi giggled. ‘I mean I would show you the websites if the net wasn’t
down.’ He stood up holding a sheaf of papers in the air. ‘Hot damn! Got it!’

He kneeled in
front of the bed and smoothed out the papers on its rumpled surface. ‘Okay,
listen to this.’ He scanned the top page and then turned it over. ‘Okay.
Lieutenant Colonel Meyers. Joined the South African Defence Force in 1970. Got
awarded a scholarship and studied at the Sandhurst Military Academy in the U.K.
It’s like the West Point of Great Britain, I guess. Then ... he acquired his
degree in chemical engineering at M.I.T. ... no less. I mean, our Georgie is no
slacker. He was destined to go to the top right from the start, lemme tell you
that. Any case, he was rapidly promoted up the ranks, blah blah blah ...’
Duggan paged furiously. ‘Aha! Then in 1983 our intrepid soldier was placed in
charge of a top secret project known
Project Clear Coast
.’

Lindiwe leaned
forward. ‘Duggan, how do you know all this?’

‘Babes, what
do I look like? A red neck? There are ways and means, believe me. Especially if
you’re a frontline journalist.’ Lindiwe smiled. ‘And in any case, a lot of this
stuff came out in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of the early 90’s.’
Lindiwe nodded. ‘A lot of it. But not all of it. Any case, so our Colonel
became head of this ultra-secret project whose aim it was to ... shall we say ...
investigate alternative means of warfare.’

Lindiwe leaned
forward impressed. Her interest was now piqued. ‘What do you mean “alternative
means of warfare”?’

‘I’ll get to
that just now.’ He winked at her. ‘Okay, now here comes an important point. In
order to mask the activities of this project and to procure the necessary
component chemical elements, a few front companies were established, right? One
of these was called Overberg Research Laboratories. Sounds mundane enough,
doesn’t it?’ Lindiwe nodded. ‘We’ll get back to that one a little later. Any
case, so here we come to the end of the 80’s. The Soviet Union falls. End of
the Cold War. Blah blah blah. The Apartheid government is about to see its
arse. And for Meyer and his cronies, it’s literally the end of the party. In
the early 90’s the then South African government decides to dismantle its
non-conventional warfare programme, specifically – but not only – its nuclear
project. By the way, did you know the Apartheid government was the only state
that voluntarily abandoned its weapons of mass destruction. Believe me, it wasn’t
because they were nice guys. The western democracies basically forced them to
do it. They were just too shit scared of what an ANC government would do with a
bunch of nuclear weapons.’ Duggan laughed and then suddenly looked at Lindiwe.
A look of boyish embarrassment on his face.

Lindiwe rolled
her eyes. ‘Don’t worry Dugg. I didn’t vote. And I’m not offended.’

Duggan smiled
sheepishly. ‘Good. I mean, you know I like black girls, right.’

She gave
Duggan a withering look. ‘Can we carry on now?’

‘Erm, okay. Where
was I? Aha. So the Apartheid government falls, blah blah. Nice okes, they give
up their bad boy weapons, right? Everything’s revealed in the TRC hearings,
right?’ Lindiwe nodded. ‘Wrong! Ostensibly ... on the surface ... the Apartheid
dudes make a full disclosure of all their WMD programmes. That’s Weapons of
Mass Destruction.’

‘I know, Dugg.’

‘Yes. Okay.
Any case, they make a full disclosure of all their projects ... except for
General Meyer’s
Project Clear Coast.
I mean, it’s like everybody just
conveniently forgets about that one. It’s like it never existed, you know. I
mean ... we can
assume
that they did dismantle the project. But that’s
it. There’s no real proof. And what’s more ... not a word is said or written about
it. And from that point, Meyer disappears from the scene. Nothing. He makes not
even one appearance at the TRC. Nada.’

‘Wow. What
does that mean?’

‘It means
baby, there were much bigger forces at work here than truth and reconciliation.
Bigger than the South African government even, that’s for sure.’

Lindiwe hugged
the pillow tightly. ‘That’s scary stuff, Duggan. Are you saying all this has
got something to do with Bishop?’

‘Hell yeah.’
He paused. ‘At least I think so.’

‘What exactly
were
they doing at this
Project Clear Coast
? You just mentioned WMD.’

‘Wait, I’m not
done yet. I’m getting to that. So ... the Meyer fairytale doesn’t end there. For
the next few years, practically all of the 90’s, he’s like
poof
. A
ghost. I don’t know. Maybe he’s catching a tan in Margate. Who knows. Then ...
a few years back. Something happens.’ Lindiwe leaned forward again, propping up
her chin with her hand. Duggan had her rapt attention. ‘And suddenly Meyer is
back on the scene. And you will not believe where he pops up, this time.’

‘You mean ...’

‘Remember that
front company I told you about?
Overberg Research Laboratories
?’ Lindi
nodded. ‘Well, even though the Colonel’s project was cancelled, it appears as
if
Overberg
carried on with business as usual. This is something I got
from my journalist friend in New York.
Overberg Research Laboratories
was
never shut down and – check this – it operates up to this day. Just like it did
in the Apartheid years. But there’s more. Recently, a few years back, they
purchased and upgraded a certain failing agricultural chemical firm. Guess which
one?’ Duggan pointed at a space on the wall. ‘The one sitting on the side of
Bishop’s Berg.’

Lindiwe
gasped.

Duggan smiled
triumphantly. ‘That’s right baby. The Apartheid front company that was
responsible for manufacturing and distributing Weapons of Mass Destruction owns
Obsidian Technologies. Co-incidence?’

Lindiwe felt
the blood drain from her face. ‘You mean, this Lieutenant Colonel is here ...
in Bishop. And he ... he’s responsible for this?’

Duggan nodded.
‘My friend in the Big Apple – by the way, his name is also George – he managed
to get his hands on the board of directors listing for Obsidian Technologies.
Don’t ask me how. It’s not a public company, so they are under no obligation to
give out this information. But listed as a member of the Obsidian Technologies
board of directors, is a certain G.R. Meyer. George Russel Meyer. Yeah, Lindi,
he’s here. And I think they’re responsible for what happened here.’ Duggan
allowed the words to sink in. ‘Look here, whatever happened ... I don’t think it
was on purpose. I mean, I just can’t see that anybody would do something like
this intentionally. So yeah, it must have been an accident. An accident that’s
gonna have ramifications way beyond the borders of Bishop. And I’m talking U.N.
Security Council shit.’