Early Autumn - 1989

Chapter One

The sound woke me. A light breeze had blown in through the partially open French windows that led to the bungalow’s balcony and rattled the vertical blinds. I slowly opened my eyes, grimaced, and immediately closed them again. My head throbbed like a bass drum and a vile post-party taste permeated my mouth. Oh, I knew the symptoms well; I had been there before, the aftermath of the celebrations of the night before.

There was movement in the bed next to me. Memories flooded back. Her name? God, for a moment my mind was blank, my inability to recall the previous night initiating the first stirrings of anxiety. Gradually I remembered - it was Francine.

The revelation did not imbue me with any feeling of relief.

Francine was an airhostess with Southern Airways, a medium-sized local airline that provided feeder flights to the international airports in the country. Their offices were in the same complex that housed our own business offices.

Holy shit! Now I’d really complicated matters. I had taken a relationship that until now was no more than a casual friendship, the highlight of which was a casual drink in the airport pub, to a new level of personal obligations, those I usually found difficult to uphold. And I dare not simply bale out of this ill-timed involvement if I did not wish all my other friends in our close-knit flying fraternity to think me a shit; some of the womenfolk would probably ostracize me anyway. Sexual hit-and-runs should be confined to those unforeseen flirtatious moments, usually between passing acquaintances with a need for sexual gratification - certainly not amongst friends.

And I did consider Francine to be one of my friends. For months, I had tried to avoid any involvement with her other than a casual, after-work amity. Certainly, when in her company I was appreciative of her beauty, but I never experienced that all-consuming desire that other women occasionally awakened in me. Francine sparked no such heartfelt desire, although she clearly felt differently. It was obvious that she had feelings for me. This was evident whenever we met; she never attempted to conceal it, but always favoured me with a special smile and a warm welcome.

We were perched on the top of a hill, part of the foothills of the Magaliesberg mountain range. The thatched roof bungalow with its surrounding porch was one of a cluster of five spread at random on a fifteen-acre piece of land close to the village of Broederstroom. Dirt tracks consisting of two ruts joined each house, they linking up to a single gravel road that finally met up with the main arterial asphalt highway a mile away. The road provided easy access to Lanseria Airport, twelve miles distant. Virgin African bush separated the bungalows, providing a feeling of privacy and tranquillity. Notwithstanding its close proximity to a major metropolis, it was home to a variety of indigenous fauna, kudu, duiker, warthog, and several species of wildcat. It was only the occasional Saturday night celebration, when the music filtered through the trees that served as a reminder that I had neighbours.

Already the dull grey light of dawn pervaded the bedroom; the hills were still shrouded in an early morning mist.

Francine turned to face me, placing her arm possessively over my chest, mumbling incoherently in her sleep, seemingly comfortable and without regrets.

For a few minutes, I just lay there my closed eyes, my face turned towards the ceiling as my thoughts dwelt on yesterday’s events. Things did not look good at all.

I turned to look at the woman again and winced. Christ, now I had her to add to my many problems! But then, I thought, that’s unfair. After all, it takes two to tango and no doubt, I had played my part: I could not recall anything, but I must have sent some strong signals. She would not think this a one-night stand, but rather a triumph in her persistent efforts to create a libidinal relationship in the hope that it would lead to something more permanent.

To aggravate the situation, our right hand lady at the office and Francine were bosom buddies. Our offices were an open door, and she was a regular visitor, there virtually every day to pay a short visit.

What had I been thinking last night?

“Morning,” she murmured with a slight smile, opening her eyes to slits, her tousled blonde hair cascading down one side of her face. Propped up on one elbow she innocently flaunted her breasts as she looked up at me. “Hi,” I grunted. “Look Francine, I’ve got a helluva day in front of me, I’ve got to be up.”

Careful now, I thought. Don’t create the impression that you regret what occurred and now wish to take flight.

For a few seconds she was quiet, still half-asleep, and then mumbled softly. “Are you sure? You don’t want to....?”

“No, no! I’ve got to move,” I protested, hoping I sounded convincing. A bit of nookie after last night would only aggravate the situation.

With that, I swung my legs out of the bed embarrassedly aware of my nakedness and walked to the adjoining bathroom. I turned the shower full on, juggling the temperature until the water was so hot it was barely bearable. I gritted my teeth and stepped under the shower-rose hoping the hot water would drive the cobwebs and unpleasant thoughts from my mind.

I had just stepped out of the shower when the phone rang.

“I hope you’ve remembered that we’re meeting with the bank at nine?” my partner snapped, dispensing with any greeting. Clearly, the man was annoyed about something.

I grunted a reply.

“I thought I’d phone early after seeing you leave the bar with that flying bimbo last night. My God, you should have seen yourself. It was damn obvious what you had in mind. Everybody watched you take advantage of her. Christ, Peter! I hope you didn’t drink anymore; I need you to be really lucid this morning. We need the bank! Are you ready to answer all their damn questions? I assume you’ve had enough sleep?” he asked sarcastically and then paused. ”Peter, this is serious stuff - please don’t fart-ass around!”

“For Christ’s sake, Gavin! Stop tryin’ to mother-hen me - I’m fine. I will be on time. And listen, don’t get derogative, okay?” I said irritably. There were times when I had trouble keeping my hands off him. ”I’ll see you at the bank fifteen minutes before the appointment!”

I spat an expletive and slammed the phone down.

Francine had risen from the bed. She was as beautiful naked as she had been the previous night dressed in her smart airhostess’ uniform. She passed me on the way to the bathroom and gave me a peck on the cheek. The relationship had clearly changed!

I rapidly dressed in a suit, not my normal daily attire but I thought a visit to the bank necessitated a good impression. I made coffee while I waited for Francine to dress. An early start was necessary, the traffic heavy in the early morning and I would have to drop her off at the airport. We both settled for no more than a slice of toast and coffee for breakfast. I chased two Advils with my coffee, hoping they would clear my throbbing head.

“Will I see you this evening?” she asked seated next to me in the SUV, her tight uniform skirt revealing a considerable amount of thigh. She lowered the sun-visor and started to touch up her makeup, staring at her face in the small mirror.

“I don’t know - that will depend very much on my bank manager,” I said suppressing an involuntary shudder. What she didn’t know was that a great deal more than seeing her or not would hinge on the bank manager!

Gavin and I owned a small aircraft taxi company called Executive Connections. The business operated out of Lanseria Airport, which is situated in the northern outskirts of Johannesburg. Our small fleet was comprised of a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron, a turbo-prop Cessna Caravan and a Piper Seneca. There were only two other employees - Shirley Owen and Mike Holloway. Shirley was a good-looking twenty-eight year-old single mother who at times took her job too seriously, assuming the role of matriarch while officially acting as receptionist, secretary, and accountant. She kept all of us, that is, Gavin, Mike and I in line - at times nearly driving us to distraction. Although not a partner, Mike Holloway was the business’ other essential element, he our mechanic and stand-in pilot when things really got busy.

Not that the company had been very busy during the last few months. The downturn in the economy had been exacerbated by the current winter, and to top it all, the tourist industry was at an all-time low.

Our business was on the skids; without a capital injection, liquidation was a distinct possibility. A ‘yes’ to our loan application with the bank was paramount; at this point: the rest just seemed incidental

“Should I first take you home?” I asked.

“No. I’ve a change of clothing at the airport - just take me to the office,” she smiled, and placed a hand on my thigh, slipping easily into her new role. This merely confirmed my fears.

I dropped her off in front of the Southern Airways administration office with a promise that I would phone her later.

I entered the bank to find Gavin already seated in the Manager’s reception area reading the morning paper, a tray with coffee and two cups on the coffee table in front of him. Three armchairs and a settee surrounded the small table weighed down with a stack of financial magazines. It appeared this was the only casual reading material banks provided for their waiting clients.

My partner was also dressed in a suit, but clearly not comfortable in it.

“Are you ready?” Gavin asked.

“You know..,” I closed my eyes for a second, shaking my head in frustration. “You’re a pain. Of course I’m bloody ready!”

I looked across at my friend and partner. We were both in our mid-thirties, I was thirty-five, - Gavin was a year older. We had both served in the South African Air Force, each having done a nine-year stint: that’s where our friendship had been forged.

Gavin emerged with the rank of major, but then he had been a fighter jockey, one of the glory boys, always promoted more rapidly. He even had a kill to his name, an Angolan Mig21F, which he had shot down just outside Luena, a Cuban air base in Moxico province in eastern Angola. I never made it beyond the rank of captain.

However, I would fervently dispute the fact that he was the better pilot!

Gavin was tall with a mop of blonde hair, which he usually kept cut short. It was only when he let it grow long that it became an unruly mop of curls. He had a ruddy complexion and easily prone to sunburn. He was meticulous by nature - everything had to be tidy and exact. He continuously worried about the business. His people skills were not good and he certainly was not the negotiating type, a man of too few words. Invariably he left the talking to me.

My approach to daily life was different; I inclined towards impetuousness, often having to back track. Still, I resolutely believed there always was a solution to any problem, it being merely a matter of applying your mind.

Gavin appeared the figure of an astute executive, his near six foot well-proportioned frame clothed in a dark blue business suit and stylish silk tie particularly striking. All he needed to do was relax.

I was two inches taller, my dark brown hair parted on the left. My face always displayed a hint of a five o clock shadow even after shaving in the morning. My complexion bordered on swarthy and my eyes were grey with a touch of green. In the sun, I quickly tanned to a golden brown. My physique was inclined to the lean - all sinews and hard muscle like a long-distance runner. My downfall was my mood swings: I was easily elated or depressed, my disposition said to be mirrored in my facial expressions. Many had branded me a true bachelor, never married or engaged but playing the field at every opportunity, careful to avoid getting emotionally involved with those in my inner circle.

Although I had flown a variety of aircraft, most of my military career I had spent with 42 Squadron based in Potchefstroom or Namibia/Angola and flying Aermacchi AM-3CM, an Italian designed high-wing single engine reconnaissance aircraft, known in South Africa as the “Bosbok”. The Air Force used the aircraft for ferrying top brass around in the combat zone, for casevac operations in the bush, and for the insertion and extraction of small elite commando units behind enemy lines.

The fighter pilots thought they were the real heroes, but our missions required guts and skill: the soldiers and bush reconnaissance troops, referred to as recces, held us in the highest esteem. Our squadron’s pilots had saved many lives, picking up the seriously wounded in the most difficult of places, in small clearings in the bush never intended for the use of winged aircraft, braving ground fire and surface-to-air missiles. In the bush war, returning to base with bullet holes in the wings and fuselage was more the norm than the exception. The magic product was Kevlar, the miracle fibre found in bulletproof vests capable of absorbing small-arms ground-fire, protecting the pilot and his passengers.

The receptionist approached.

“Mr Rose-Innes will see you now,” she said primly, leading the way down a short passageway to the left of her desk.

We entered the spacious office, and Rose-Innes came around from his large desk to shake our hands. He gestured to the chairs facing his desk. He was a short rotund man in a grey suit with thinning blonde hair, which barely covered his scalp. A pair of square-rimmed spectacles was perched on his nose.

“Tea or coffee?” he offered. We both declined.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve carefully studied the business plan and projections which you presented me with. I must admit that I find them impressive, but I must ask - are they achievable?” He paused expectantly.

“I drew them up and given time, as indicated in the projection therein, I believe those results to be possible.” I responded, hoping I sounded confident.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Well, I think not. I think you are too optimistic. The economy is in recession and even we in the Bank don’t know when it will recover. Economists predict it could take a year.” I was sure I could discern a tone of finality in Rose-Innes’ voice.

With a sinking heart, I realized where this was going.

“But we have offered you first class collateral to secure the loan. The property in question is fifteen acres in extent with several houses erected on it. The current mortgage has virtually been repaid - only a few thousand still outstanding,” I countered.

The manager clasped his hands together, steepling his fingertips in front of him.

“It’s not about security alone... but rather about affordability. That’s the catch phrase. Banks make loans with the intention of never having to enforce their guarantees. I’m not convinced we would not have to do so in your case. We are not sure your company will be able to repay its loan. It is a large sum of money you are looking for, and your business is too highly geared - your debt ratio is too high. Already you are hard-pressed to meet the monthly repayments on your aircraft.”

He paused dramatically.

“In fact, I believe you have already over-extended yourselves.”

It was a death knell - the bank was not going to help. This was no longer a crisis; we now faced a disaster. Without cash, the business would not survive another month. The next payments for the aircraft were due within a few days: once these payments were more than a month behind, the finance houses would initiate steps to repossess the aircraft. Then there was the outstanding fuel bill: this too was no small amount.

“Isn’t there anything you can suggest?” Gavin asked weakly.

I looked at him; he was pale, it was evident that the bank’s response had alarmed him too.

“I would suggest you reduce your fleet and so reduce your debt,” Rose-Innes replied.

I realized that to pursue this was a hopeless cause; the bank was not going to help.

I rose from my chair and thanked the manager for his time, feeling numb and in a near state of shock.

What were we to do now?

We crossed the banking hall and walked out onto the sidewalk.

“Come on, let’s find a coffee bar - we need to talk,” Gavin said, clearly agitated. We found a nearby coffee shop and took a table, ordering bottomless cups from the waiter.

Gavin looked across at me, his face pale; given his complexion, this made him near white.

“Of course, you know what you have to do now,” he said, his chin thrust forward aggressively; there was no mistaking that ‘you had better listen to me’ attitude.

“What do you mean - ‘I have to do’?” I responded with barely concealed irritation, clenching my jaw.

The man’s attitude irked me at times.

“You remember the offer you were made a while back when Trichardt mentioned those flights into Angola? Well, is there an alternative anymore? I don’t think so,” Gavin replied.

I was no longer able to conceal my annoyance. What arrogance! The current situation merely acted as a catalyst for my growing anger.

“Don’t be fuckin’ crazy! I’m not undertaking any clandestine flights, dogging Cuban Migs and SAM’s, no matter what’s offered. If you survive being shot down, nobody knows you... they just fuckin’ summarily shoot you - no prisoners. Besides that, nobody knows precisely what the South African government’s stance is on this - they could suddenly decide to arrest everybody. Christ man! Why me?”

Gavin ignored my outburst.

“Well.., you’ve done it before. Don’t forget, that’s how you got your share together to start our business in the first place! Trichardt has always been impressed with you. You’ve pulled off a couple of hairy missions for him and probably saved him a shitload of money - in fact, I know you have!” Gavin retorted vehemently.

“Dammit man! I’m glad to be still alive - a good reason not to do it again.”

“Fifty thousand Rand a flight? A couple of those and we would be out of the woods.” Gavin prevailed.

“Who says all flights pay fifty thousand Rand? Where did you hear that?” I replied angrily. There were moments when my partner could really piss me off and make me forget he was my friend as well. “Why me particularly?” I added

“Well, as I said, you’ve done it before. You’ve flown into hundreds of bush-strips. I always had ten thousand foot runways. You’ve a lot more experience - and you can get by in Portuguese.” Gavin retorted. Clearly, he was not about to let me off easily. I realized that he’d already given this a lot of thought.

I did not want to admit it but I knew he had a point; this was one way of getting the money together, and in a short time.

The support of the American CIA and South Africa for Savimbi’s UNITA movement was just one large grey area - nothing could be assumed; it all hinged on international politics at the time, which could be good today and bad tomorrow.

However, if the private sector, who was invariably paid well from Savimbi’s war coffers, proposed to fly in cargo, which included weapons for his movement, the South African government turned a blind eye as did the CIA - most of the cargo was government-sanctioned anyway. Nobody ever endeavoured to verify the cargo against the manifests. Mostly these were just bogus documents, the cargoes contained thereon innocuous; the South African government was not seen to be directly involved.

The world carefully watched South Africa: the country had no friends and was ostracized by most others in the world. Besides, I knew that Trichardt was well connected, and this opened a few government doors. No doubt, the man was a member of the Nationalist party and clearly also a member of the ruling Afrikaans establishment. Currently the government was kissing the CIA’s ass, probably one of the very few friends it had, even if the association was covert. It was no more than an association of convenience: helping UNITA suited South Africa as did it the CIA.

UNITA, covertly supported by the west, and SWAPO supported by the communist bloc, were enemies. SWAPO, the South West African rebel movement, waged a civil war against South Africa in neighbouring South West Africa/Namibia, demanding independence and a democratically elected government. That meant a government elected by all races, something apartheid South Africa opposed on principle!

“Christ! I don’t know. Just thinking about it scares the shit out of me - I’ve already done this once too often. If you’re shot down anywhere up there, you’ve got no friends, - you’re truly on your own,” I muttered.

“Com’on Peter, just speak to Trichardt... it can’t do any harm.”

Chapter Two

That Trichardt had made millions supplying any African guerrilla movements with their needs was blatantly obvious. The only distinction the man-made was that he supported only those movements that were anti-communist. Not that I didn’t harbour the same feelings. However, Trichardt also had business tentacles in other industries - arms manufacture, electronics, petroleum, and publishing.

He sat behind his ornate desk on the fifteenth floor of the Sandton Towers, a prominent landmark on the Johannesburg skyline, resplendent in his Christian Dior suit, Gucci shoes. Trichardt had run afoul of the law on a number of occasions but the serious crimes division had never been able to pin him down - his lawyers were too good and his bribes too substantial, or so it was rumoured. Many believed that the national prosecuting authorities’ attempts to charge Trichardt with transgressions related to organized crime were no more than a sham to appease those liberals who chanted for his head. God only knew what went on behind closed doors in the top Afrikaner circles.

Trichardt stretched his hand across in greeting; I took it. I knew him to be in his mid-fifties. A tall man with a still trim physique, his square face square had white lines radiating from the corner of his grey-blue eyes, evidence that he was the outdoors type. He sported a healthy tan, enhanced by thick, near snow-white hair cut short in military fashion. The colour of his eyebrows matched his hair, and the combination gave him a distinguished look.

I had heard that he was an ardent sailor and owned an ocean-going yacht moored in Cape Town, a stone’s throw from the Royal Cape Yacht Club, which overlooked the yacht basin. The rental alone for that mooring would make most blanch at the excess! His other passions were said to be women and golf. These would be my hobbies as well, had I the money!

There was no doubt that he cut an imposing figure; a man of wealth and power - but certainly not a man to cross.

“So, you are having second thoughts? I must say, your phone-call surprised me,” he said, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“Well... that depends,” I replied hesitantly, not really happy to be in his office again. “I’ve a few questions.”

“What, is it the money?”

“More money certainly would help - you know the job’s dangerous, getting more so each day what with the Cubans now involved. But, this time I would like to know a lot more.” I paused. “What type of aircraft and what’s the cargo, and of course, exactly where to in Angola.”

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s cut the bullshit,” Trichardt said brusquely. “I’ll give you seventy thousand for the trip I’ll have ready in a few days, half up front, the balance on return. It’s a large aircraft this time, a Hawker Siddeley 748, converted to carry cargo - no additional crew but one passenger pretending to be your co-pilot.” Trichardt saw that I was about to object and raised a hand. “Wait, I know that’s illegal, the aircraft’s supposed to have a crew of two. But then I would have to reduce your payment.”

I’ll fly it myself,” I replied without hesitation, “but who’s the passenger?” I was apprehensive. Passengers could be bad news on these flights.

“He’s just aboard to make sure the transaction is handled amicably at the other end - that would be at UNITA headquarters at Jamba - you’d not want to get involved, believe me,” Trichardt replied.

“Okay, if he keeps out of my way, I’m fine with it.”

Trichardt nodded.

“All right, take-off is on Sunday night from Lanseria, its quiet then, not many people around. You can have access to the aircraft from Sunday morning. Your passenger will meet you there around sunset. You can have your half payment now by cheque or cash. Your company can invoice me - how’s that? I can trust you; it’s not the first time we’re doing business.”

I agreed.

Trichardt called his secretary, asking her to prepare the cheque. Well... secretary? I had to admire the man. She was a stunner, a truly beautiful woman. She looked very efficient in a blue business suit, the short skirt revealing long sheer legs and a well-proportioned body, the crown of golden hair and striking green eyes. I just couldn’t help believing that she was definitely more than just somebody to make out his cheques, keep his diary, and do his filing!

I met Gavin in the shopping mall below and handed him the cheque.

How did it go?” Gavin asked, eyebrows raised.

“The man wants an invoice. Make it out for the full amount, okay? As to how it went, well, let’s say the only good part was that woman of his. Christ! What a piece of whoopee!”

Gavin laughed, the relief evident on his face. He took the cheque from me and stared at it,

“Christ! This will keep us going for a while. At least we can now settle the fuel bill.”

“The fuel bill? Hell, it’s my bacon I’m worried about. Fuck, I didn’t believe I would have to do this again! On top of the trip, I’ve some asshole accompanying me and I’ve got to bring a bloody woman back as well.”

“A woman out of Jamba?” Gavin asked astounded. “Who is she?”

“He wouldn’t say but said I should rather not ask. Some bloody cloak and dagger stuff, I’m sure. Somehow or other he’s connected to the CIA. You know they’re into Zaire and the FNLA as well, they’ll support anybody as long as they are against the bloody Commies; who cares how many people are tortured, maimed, and killed in the process. If you want American support, all you have to do is hate the Commies,” I replied, still annoyed at the prospect of passengers.

The Hawker Siddeley certainly had seen better days. It was evident that she previously was a passenger aircraft; the row of windows along the fuselage had been removed and covered with aluminium sheet, the rivets clearly visible under the paint. She was a 748 Super, the 2500 shaft-horsepower Rolls-Royce Dart turbo-prop engines fitted with hush kits, which made the aircraft quieter - not a bad idea when flying into Angola. She was devoid of any insignia, just painted a drab unreflective grey. The only lettering on the aircraft was her South African registration number. A closer inspection of the aircraft and logbooks revealed that she was an old lady with nineteen thousand airframe hours. However, the books also revealed that she had been well maintained.

Trichardt owned or rented a collection of hangars situated on a corner of the airfield and this was where the aircraft was parked, far away from prying eyes. Still, if anybody wanted to find out what was going on, this would not have stopped them; no security was evident.

I met the loadmaster, a man in Trichardt’s employ, a huge man dressed in khaki with a distinctly Afrikaans guttural nuance to his English.

“I’m Johan, are you the pilot?” he asked his voice harsh.

“Yes - call me Peter.”

“Come, let me show you around. She’s a good plane; used to belong to some Canadian crowd. She’s loaded - medical equipment and medicines. I’ll give you the load plan. Also, she’s fuelled up, ready to fly. By the way, she’s fitted with a radar altimeter which will allow you to fly pretty close to the ground.”

Christ! What bullshit. Medical supplies... that’s what Trichardt had told me I would be flying to Angola but I knew this would not be true. I decided not to ask, this could only implicate me more. It was always better to say ‘I don’t know’ and mean it. Just fly the damn aircraft and get home safely, I thought.

I had no love for Savimbi and his UNITA crowd. I had seen too many atrocities on previous flights. Sometimes forced to stay over for a week or more at the UNITA logistic airfields that dotted the Cuando Cubango province in south-eastern Angola, I had seen boy-soldiers armed to the teeth, juvenile rape, public executions, and all the other abhorrent acts that seemed to accompany war in this territory. The local inhabitants were press-ganged to serve in the ragtag army equipped by a host of western-inclined African nations and the CIA and, of course, South Africa. The American President Ronald Reagan and the conservative Senator Jesse Helms had come out in open support of Savimbi and his movement. They had even established a foundation supported by other high profile conservatives, its purpose to garner further support for the UNITA movement.

Not that Savimbi’s enemies were any better; the MPLA and their Cuban consorts were just as guilty, inflicting their own brand of atrocity on the local population.

Johan had done a professional job. An inspection revealed that the cargo was properly distributed in the cargo hold, well within the aircraft’s load limitations, the pallets and crates secured with straps and ratchets. All the weights appeared on the manifest.

“We’ve even filed your flight plan,” Johan commented. “Take-off is scheduled for eight tonight. Here’s a copy.”

He handed the paper to me and I scrutinized the document and chuckled sarcastically to myself. The whole damn thing was just so much poppycock.

The plan revealed a crew of two, no load and the final destination as Maun in Botswana. Maun is a large town with buildings dotted over a few square miles on the flat arid bush plains, the buildings all invariably roofed with corrugated iron sheets, their unpainted silver-finish reflecting the desert sun. The town is situated on the edge of the Okavango Delta, a vast swampland where the Okavango River disappears into the sands of the Kalahari Desert, never to reach the sea; it and its surrounds are all game reserves, a true paradise of flora and fauna in a barren land.

This meant the aircraft would have to land at Maun on schedule, which would be duly recorded so as not to start an emergency when it did not arrive. Obviously, Trichardt must have some connection at Muan to ensure that no such situation arose when it did not arrive. Fictitious notations in airport logbooks cost money... but if you’ve got enough money, you can buy anything in Africa! Actually, I was supposed to land at Maun, but that would be only on my return flight in order to refuel. The aircraft would have off-loaded its discriminating cargo by then.

Johan handed me an envelope.

“There’s a thousand dollars US... mind, this is only to be used in an emergency in case you have to buy your way out of any shit that hits the fan.”

I took the money without comment. This was standard procedure; on previous flights, they had supplied these emergency funds as well; US dollars worked miracles in Africa.

By six that evening I had completed a thorough inspection of the aircraft, looking into every nook and cranny with a flashlight, checking electrical and hydraulic lines, control surface hinges, wheel wells, brakes and tyres. The engines had recently been through the workshops. The bird was ready to go.

It was near six-thirty, the sun just dipping below the horizon when a silver Mercedes 500S pulled up, and Trichardt and another man alighted.

“Hi Peter,” Trichardt greeted me. “This is Kowalski... he’ll accompany you as we discussed.”

We shook hands. I looked at the man. I guessed him to be about forty. Dark brown hair with a distinct military cut, chiselled features and dark eyes, of medium height. Dressed in khaki chinos with a washed-out denim bush-shirt, designed with a light blue chest panel on each side and bare epaulettes, with sensibly stout hiking boots and a bush hat. He carried a leather briefcase.

“You’re not armed, are you?” I asked.

The man shook his head.

“Good.”

Being civilians, it would not be a good idea to be armed when dealing with any rebel forces.

Our departure from Lanseria was uneventful. Once airborne I contacted Johannesburg Control who cleared us to our assigned flight level requesting that we report their FIR outbound. Nobody seemed suspicious. The aircraft was lit up, its navigational lights and rotating beacon flashing. I had put Kowalski in the seat next to me with instructions not to touch anything. Kowalski had protested, preferring one of the jump seats, but I insisted. He wasn’t talkative which suited me. All I had gleaned was that the man was Polish but had been in the country for many years and was a naturalized South African. His spoken English was good

We soon crossed the Botswana border. I contacted Gaberones, which controlled all Botswana’s airspace, reporting our flight-level and ETA for Maun. Air Traffic Control requested that I report operations as normal at half-hourly intervals.

The Americans had built a large airbase just outside Gaberones, a facility far larger than what the Botswana military required, ostensibly to accommodate the NASA Space Shuttle in the event of it experiencing an emergency. Such emergency airfields with long enough runways were dotted around the world. While it would serve such a purpose well, in reality it had been built to provide the Americans with a springboard from which to launch whatever military intervention would be required if South Africa, with its apartheid policy, were to erupt into civil war, which might provide the communists an opportunity to gain a foothold in the country. The Americans were adamant that the communist bloc should never control South Africa and its mineral wealth.

Of course, the Americans would vehemently deny this.

We flew over the Kalahari Desert. Here the landscape was flat desert bushveld, the ground elevation never varying by more than a few feet or so every few miles. I intended to descend to treetop level but had to wait; I was sure that the American radar network still tracked us. Their system had to be the most sophisticated in southern Africa. Only when we were a hundred and fifty miles from Gaberones did I descend, switching off all navigational lights and activating the radar altimeter. I brought the aircraft down to just three hundred feet, my eyes glued to the instruments.

There was only a quarter moon, the surrounding bush virtually devoid of any light and certainly insufficient to create any sort of horizon. The ground and night sky merged into total blackness. I changed course from Maun to another heading to take us to Jamba, a UNITA logistical base in the south-eastern corner of Angola, just beyond the borders of South West Africa/Namibia and Zambia.

Jamba boasted a nearly ten thousand feet runway hacked out of the Angolan bush, levelled, with hard packed dirt, and capable of handling aircraft as large as the C130 Hercules transport plane. Jamba also housed Savimbi’s headquarters and a few thousand men. The rebels themselves lived spread out in the bush, their presence hardly noticeable from the air, yet anti-aircraft and radar batteries surrounded the facility. Although never admitted, Jamba had been the brainchild of the American CIA, a vast military encampment through which many countries supplied Savimbi’s army with military support. The Americans had even supplied Savimbi’s army with Stinger missiles to combat the Cuban aircraft and Mig fighters.

With no landmarks and at three hundred feet in the night, navigation was exceedingly difficult. At over two hundred miles an hour, the aircraft skimmed the desert in total darkness. As the aircraft neared Jamba, the UNITA forces operating the airfield would activate a beacon, permitting the Hawker Siddeley to home in on the signal using a radio direction finder. When nearly upon the airfield, runway lights would be switched on, for a short period only, in order to allow the aircraft to land. A transponder signal would tell me how far we were from the airfield so that I could ascend to a safe height above the airfield and prepare the aircraft for landing. It was then that we would be at our most vulnerable. Fortunately, the Cuban pilots seemed to have an aversion to night flights, especially in this area - no lights, no horizon, and virtually no navigational aids easily lead to disorientation.

When the transponder indicated the airfield nearly below, I pulled back on the stick to take the aircraft above a thousand feet. I lowered the under-carriage and flaps, and brought the aircraft tightly round to line-up with the runway lights and commence descent: the runway was now a double strip of white in front of me.

No sooner had we slowed to a near walking pace than the runway lights were extinguished and a vehicle materialised out of the darkness to lead us to the parking area.

A forklift appeared and hoisted a platform up to the exit to allow us to disembark. Three officers, clad in camouflage uniforms and berets, met us on the ground. They spoke Portuguese. I was surprised that Kowalski understood and was able to speak to them. I wondered what the man’s real function was. Somehow, I did not believe the Pole was there to assist me.

The most senior officer drew me aside.

“You must leave tonight,” he said abruptly in Portuguese.

“Tonight?” I retorted, surprised at this turn of events.

“Yes, it’s too dangerous. There are too many Cuban aircraft patrolling this area... they’ve actually taken over and are operating the Angolan Air Force now, piloting the Migs. Rumour says that a few Russian pilots may also be flying these. You should take off an hour before dawn so that you fly over Angola when still dark. When you cross back into Botswana it will only just be light.”

It was pointless arguing. Here UNITA was boss and you did exactly as you were told. Actually, I was pleased - the sooner we got away the better.

“Where’s my passenger?” I asked.

“Kowalski? No, he will come with me -I’ll bring him back later.”

“Not Kowalski, I meant the passenger I’m to take back.”

“Ah, she’ll arrive later once the aircraft is off-loaded,” he officer replied. With that, the man turned and walked off into the darkness with his fellow officers.

Another forklift appeared with about ten uniformed men who immediately started off-loading the aircraft. Everything was boxed and crated; it was impossible to establish what the cargo comprised of as the boxes and crates bore no markings. However, by the weight, I was sure that whatever the contents were, it wasn’t medicine.

Within half an hour, the aircraft was off-loaded. The men ignored me, although I never was further than a few yards away.

It was almost four in the morning when a Jeep pulled up with four occupants; two officers, a woman in khaki fatigues and well-worn suede bush-boots, and Kowalski, now carrying two briefcases.

One of the officers approached me with the woman in tow.

“This is Maria Garcia. She’ll be returning with you,” he said, the man’s tone indicating that this was not an issue open to discussion.

The woman nodded but did not offer to shake my hand. She was slim with black hair, which she wore short. She had a cap on her shoulder, buttoned-down by a shirt epaulette, but her khaki clothing was devoid of any insignia. From her appearance, I guessed that she was probably from a Mediterranean country, maybe Portugal; most whites I’d met here before were either from Portugal or the States. In the semi-darkness, she appeared to have an olive complexion and dark eyes. Her only baggage was an olive-green holdall, which hung from a strap over her shoulder.

With the assistance of the forklift, we soon boarded. Kowalski indicated that Maria should go and sit up front with me. He seemed more concerned with his new briefcases. He no longer had his leather briefcase; these were metal, painted a dark matt black and quite large. He placed these carefully on each side of him as he sat down on a jump seat bolted to the bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the cargo hold, facing down the length of the fuselage.

”There’s no co-pilot?” she asked as she slid into the right-hand seat, her English tainted with an American accent.

I was surprised.

“No. You’re American?”

“Well, originally from Cuba. My parents fled to the States when I was a child.”

“Now it makes sense..., I did think Garcia was Portuguese. Spanish...hey? I take it you still speak the language?”

“Yes.”

“Well, pleased to meet you, Miss Garcia,” I said, infusing my voice with a hint of welcome as I smiled and offered my hand.

She took it. “Call me Maria...Hi.” Her fingers were cool to the touch.

“Okay Maria, so what’s an American woman like you doing in this part of the world?” I asked.

“I can’t say. And I won’t ask you any questions either, okay? Better, we don’t know too much about each other. No offence, but its best that way. At least we’re both on the same side,” she countered, indicating clearly that the subject was taboo.

“Sure.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Christ, who was she? Probably some damn agent or something, I thought. Well, if she wanted to remain silent, that was fine by me.

Chapter Three

Once airborne I again kept the aircraft at three hundred feet, the large plane just skimming the ground, hopefully too fast for anybody to launch a missile. I sat slightly hunched over, staring at the radar altimeter. Using the trim switch on the control yoke, I wound in some up trim as a safety factor. This required that I constantly maintain forward pressure on the yoke to keep the aircraft from climbing, a safety precaution in case my attention wandered. The aircraft would then automatically start to climb and not nose into the ground.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw a flash. A split-second later, the starboard engine exploded with an enormous bang. The cockpit interior was briefly brightly illuminated by the explosion. A violent shudder passed through the plane and the aircraft began to yaw towards the starboard side.

I immediately hauled back on the stick, the aircraft clawing for altitude. I stomped my foot on the left rudder correcting the yaw caused by the drag of the damaged and now dead engine. The aircraft zoomed skyward, borne up momentarily by its forward momentum, but this rapidly was rapidly bleeding off..

“Holy shit! That was a rocket from a fighter or a SAM,” I shouted. Risking a quick glance at Maria, I saw that she now clutched both armrests, her eyes wide with shock. I’d heard Kowalski’s loud shriek of surprise and fear but could not afford him a look, the crippled aircraft demanding my total attention. Fed by fuel, which spewed from severed fuel lines, and fanned by the slipstream, rippling flame now encompassed the turbo-engine and streamed over the wing. Reflexes took over. Without thinking, I shut off the fuel supply and activated the engine’s fire extinguishers. The searing hot flames would otherwise melt the aluminium and eventually burn through the wing’s main spar, causing the end of the wing to break off. It would then be impossible to keep the plane in the air.

The aircraft had gained about a thousand feet in altitude, but I saw that the fire extinguishers had been ineffective: they probably damaged in the explosion as well.

The first light of dawn blossomed rapidly on the horizon and I realized that the dark streak to the east was the Cuano River floodplain. The Angolan border with Namibia and Botswana to the south had to be nearby: the Cuano River demarcated the border with Zambia. I thought frantically. The starboard engine trailed flame like a blowtorch. I knew that we would never make Maun, it was too far away; anyway, landing there with a shot-up aircraft would raise a near diplomatic furore.

I didn’t have a choice. I would have to put the aircraft down in Angola.

Soon!

There was another airstrip on the banks of the Cuano River to the east. I could not be sure, but I thought the gravel strip to be about five to six thousand feet in length. It was a dirt strip and the only one near enough. Putting an aircraft this size down in the virgin bush was bound to be fatal for us all; it would have to be at least an open area hacked out in the bush. Although the airfield was long unused, it was my only option.

I turned the aircraft east estimating that the strip would be no more than ten or fifteen miles away. The light had improved, I was now able to distinguish features on the ground. I saw the river in the distance, its flood plain quite clear, about a mile to a mile and a half wide although the actual river was less than two hundred yards wide, this a meandering strip of water in the centre of the floodplain.

The burning engine nacelle was slowly disintegrating. I knew we had only minutes before the main spar succumbed to the flames; already burning bits of metal were breaking off and disappearing into the slipstream in a shower of sparks. I lowered the flaps and undercarriage intending to fly the plane straight onto the runway. Thank God, I thought; at least the landing gear and flaps still worked. Like all runaways in this part of Africa, this one was built in a northwest-southeast direction, as here the wind predominantly blew from the northwest..

As the strip came into sight, I saw that it was partially overgrown with stunted bush and trees. It had obviously not been used for years. Anthills were my greatest fear. Prolific in this region and not easily discernible from the air as they blended in with the ground. They could stand up to three meters high. And if the airfield had been out of use for long, there was every chance a few could have been built by the termites on the runway.

As soon as the main wheels touched, I pulled the throttle back and harshly applied the toe-brakes. The nose dropped, the nose-wheel slamming onto the ground, the propellers chewing up the bush and small trees that had invaded the disused strip. Branches and twigs flew in all directions, some hammering on the fuselage.

The port undercarriage leg slammed into an emerging anthill and the strut collapsed, slewing the plane to the left, the engine’s propeller blades clawing up the ground. The aircraft slid off the runway into the bush , this over-stressing the other landing strut which now also collapsed, dragging the burning wing on the ground, leaving a trail of flame setting the bush alight.

The bush alongside the runway was virgin, the trees higher. Seconds later the wing hit a huge tree, one of the many large trees that grow in the gallery forests along the rivers. With a loud crack and the rending of metal, the wing was ripped from the fuselage and ignited fuel sprayed from the ruptured fuel tanks, further fuelling the trailing fire.

The cacophony of sound was deafening and terrifying.

I had long ago lost control of the situation and was just praying that the aircraft would stop before we were all incinerated. Slowly the aircraft came to a grinding crunching halt. I immediately undid my seatbelt and shoulder harness.

“Get out, get out!” I shouted, dragging the woman from her seat and diving through the bulkhead door. Kowalski was still in his seat fumbling to undo his harness, abject fear distorting his face. I bent down to help.

As soon as he was free, the Pole grabbed the two briefcases and rushed towards the exit at the aircraft’s tail end, which I was kicking open. The aircraft was lying on its belly, as the nose-wheel had also collapsed. We dropped to the ground, only two or three feet, and ran away from the burning wreck.

We had hardly covered fifty paces when with a loud whoosh, more fuel ignited. The whole aircraft was enveloped in flame. Seconds later there was a loud explosion, which ripped the plane apart. Pieces of metal whistled past us. We dropped to the ground as a huge mushroom-shaped fireball rose into the dawn sky.

The heat was intense; I raised my arms to cover my face.

“Come on, we’ve got to get further away,” I screamed.

We scrambled to our feet and ran deeper into the bush. When I thought the distance to be safe, I dropped to the ground and looked back. Kowalski was still trying to catch up with us, overburdened by the two heavy briefcases.

“For God’s sake, leave the fuckin’ cases,” I shouted.

Kowalski ignored me and clutched them tighter. He finally fell to the ground next to us, his chest heaving as he fought for breath, the smell of singed hair emanating from him.

“Why are you dragging these bloody cases around? Are you nuts? You could’ve have died!” I berated him.

“I can’t leave them. They’re the reason I’m here!”

Jesus! Let him hang onto his cases, I thought. He would abandon them soon enough - they were just a hindrance now.

Within a few minutes everything had changed. Our lives were now seriously in danger - wild animals roamed this virtually uninhabited area, the war having long driven the few inhabitants from the land. The only humans now were the rebel soldiers from UNITA and their enemy, the MPLA.

We had neither weapons nor water.

Although the river was nearby. Early morning light bathed the bushveld, the sun just peeping over the horizon. There was no wind and a huge pall of black smoke hung over the area from the burning fuel and bush.

“Christ! That can be seen for bloody miles. It certainly will bring somebody along in a tearing hurry,” I thought aloud.

“You’re right - not good,” the woman murmured, standing right next to me. “We had reports of two MPLA groups in this area - just a few men in each, but well-armed, probably accompanied by a Cuban adviser. One of them may have shot us down. They said to be carrying SAM8s with them.”

“And you happen to just know these things?” I asked turning to stare at her, my eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Yeah, I know these things,” she replied, a trace of sarcasm noticeable in her voice, not flinching from my look.

I wanted to ask her again who she was and how she fitted into the civil war, which had raged for years in the region, but thought better of it - she probably would evade my questions anyway. I was supposed to give her a lift - no more than that. Well, she certainly was enjoying the lift of a lifetime!

She was a beautiful woman. I guessed her to be about thirty. Even dressed in the now dirty fatigues I could see that she was trim, with curves in the right places, near voluptuous. Now that it was daylight, I saw that my first impression was right; she had a swarthy complexion with strikingly dark eyes, slightly prominent cheekbones, and her smile revealed perfect teeth.

“Well, Capitano, what do you propose we do now?” she asked with a trace of a smile.

“First off, let’s be thankful that we are alive and so far unharmed. Then to be perfectly honest, I don’t know quite what to do. Crossing on foot into Zambia or South West Africa and being found by the authorities will create enormous problems; we would probably locked up while diplomats try to sort out the problem. Or, and more probable, we could be captured by SWAPO terrorists - we’re whites, they’ll kill us without hesitation.”

It didn’t look good at all, I thought glumly as I talked to myself.

“The South African government will certainly ignore our existence - it’s too damn embarrassing, not being able to explain what a South African civil aircraft was doing in Angola in the first place. They’ve done it before - just played dumb. I know of an instance where the whole bloody crew landed up in front of a firing squad. Although admittedly, that was in another country north of us, also plagued by civil war.”

I looked at Kowalski. “I take it you are South African?” I asked.

Kowalski nodded, still clutching the two briefcases.

“And you?” I asked the woman, although she had already implied she was American.

“It’s complicated, but let’s say that at this stage I can’t ask for assistance either. I’ve no papers; they’ve gone up in smoke, so it would seem we’re going to have to sort this problem out on our own.”

“Mine too,” I said; my flight bag had not escaped the flames.

“What I do know is that we are going to be picked up by a patrol pretty soon if we don’t cross the border,” she said. “Frankly, I believe we should stay here and take our chances. If a UNITA patrol finds us, we should be okay. They can take us back to Jamba where we’ll be able to wait for another flight.”

I realized that interestingly she was right.

“Okay, let’s hide and wait till somebody arrives. We can then decide whether we want to reveal ourselves.”

“I’ve got to get these briefcases to Johannesburg,” Kowalski suddenly blurted.

Maria guffawed.

“Fuck the briefcases; it’s your ass you should be worrying about. What the hell’s in them anyway?” she asked, inclining her head towards the two cases at his side. The woman’s coarse outburst surprised me.

Kowalski sighed.

“You now also work for Trichardt... I better tell you in case anything should happen to us.” He looked at me. “It’s payment from Savimbi for the past few shipments - a considerable amount. Plus the product of his diamond mining operations in Lunda Sul and Lunda Norte near the Zairian border in the north. Normally these are routed through Zaire and then Burkina Faso, but the bush-war has made that route too dangerous as the MPLA has taken control of the north of the country.”

I realized there was a lot more to the story, but obviously Kowalski was not saying more.

Nobody carried rough uncut diamonds around in a briefcase through an airport in South Africa. Without a licence, possession of uncut diamonds was a serious offence. Kowalski didn’t strike me as somebody with a gemstone trading licence! Maria’s outburst had forced Kowalski to divulge what he had: the man had been taken by surprise and considering his present predicament, was certainly a man in need of assistance.

“Well, if I was you I’d hide those, and very quickly too. If we escape, you can always devise some plan to get back here. We’re right on an airfield and it should be easy enough to recover the cases. Christ, if the rebels, and I mean either UNITA or MPLA, find these on us, we’re good as dead. Any patrol finding us and opening those will assume they belong to us and are theirs for the taking... and they wouldn’t want any witnesses around, know what I mean?” I gestured vehemently, hoping he would see my concern.

From their expressions it was clear that they both understood what I was implying.

“Would you come back here and fetch them?” Kowalski asked.

I had to chuckle, the man was persistent.

“The price would have to be right, but I don’t want to think about that now!”

“We would pay well.”

It dawned on me that while I was just putting forward a possibility, Kowalski was quite serious.

“Hell, Kowalski, let’s just think about getting home first, okay?”

We found a spot on the banks of the river’s flood plain, a small clearing surrounded by big trees, just off the south-eastern end of the runaway. It was a spot that would present no difficulty in finding again, a hundred yards from a burnt-out Russian tracked personnel-carrier that appeared to have hit a mine, its one track missing. Clearly, this had to have happened a good while back as the vehicle was already badly weathered.

Digging a hole was easy, as the area was completely devoid of stone. We managed to break the hard topsoil crust with a branch cut off a tree with a pocketknife, and dug a hole about two feet deep. Kowalski placed the briefcases in the hole. We meticulously noted the exact position of the cache relative to the trees, the runway, and the personnel carrier. He filled the hole and then spread twigs and grass over the disturbed ground to hide the spot.

“Okay, let’s move away from here and get to a position where we can keep the aircraft under observation without being seen ourselves,” I said.

Chapter Four

The noon sun beat down on us. We were concealed below a large stunted bush with a wide canopy of green, which afforded us a view of the airstrip, which danced in the heat that rose from the ground. Kowalski and I had dragged a few branches to below the bush to further camouflage our position. We were not concerned with what lay behind us - that was Zambian territory and nothing was about to cross from there; the Zambian locals considered any forages into Angolan territory far too dangerous, what with patrols and landmines.

The wreck still smouldered, tendrils of black smoke drifting upwards into the sky. The bushfire had burnt itself out; the bush and savannah were not yet dry enough to sustain the flames. It would only burn well in the winter, after the rainy season had ended.

I realized that we could not stay much longer. We desperately needed water and to move towards the river would be to reveal ourselves. Maria had warned us that the presence of MPLA patrols made it too dangerous. She was certain that it was one of these patrols that had shot the aircraft down, and that they were bound to come and investigate. She added that she believed UNITA would have launched a pursuit operation in the hope of engaging the MPLA patrols.

Maria was an enigma. I wondered how she fitted into the realm of things. She seemed to be extremely well-informed about UNITA, the MPLA, and their movements. I just could not understand what a white woman was doing in this area. Surely the CIA would not send a woman into an African bush operation?

“We soon need to move towards the river,” I said lying prone on the ground. She lay next to me, Kowalski was a few yards behind us.

“Wait, we can only do that after sunset. I’m sure somebody will still arrive, just be patient. They can’t ignore a plane of this size coming down.”

She was right.

About two that afternoon, a troop of men emerged from the bush at the other end of the runway. They moved down the strip in single file, spaced out at about fifteen to twenty yard intervals with assault rifles at the ready. As they got closer, I saw that most wore dark berets.

“They’re UNITA,” Maria whispered before I could say anything.

“Thank God for that,” Kowalski said with a sigh of relief.

“Let’s wait first. I don’t think we should reveal ourselves yet,” she cautioned.

I said nothing, letting my silence indicate that I agreed.

Once the troop was a beam of the wreckage, they turned off the strip and approached the smouldering hulk of the aircraft. I noticed that they established a perimeter guard around the scene, obviously wary, not feeling safe. After a while, the men returned to the airstrip, looking around.

“They’ve found no burnt bodies in the plane and are wondering where the survivors are. See, they are looking at the tracks on the runway. They’ll find us soon enough, they’ve got the best trackers in the world,” I whispered to her

“Okay, maybe we should show ourselves - they’re UNITA. Kowalski remember; don’t mention your briefcases - we don’t know what they know,” she said.

I crawled slowly from under the bush and raised myself, my arms extended above my head. Maria and Kowalski followed. This stopped the troop in its tracks about two hundred yards away, and they all raised their rifles. We remained motionless and silent. One of the men moved forward, followed by another two soldiers who took up position behind him and slowly moved closer until only a few yards separated us. They wore dark green uniforms over which webbing was draped, the pouches attached to the webbing bulging with magazines and grenades.

The leading man was obviously an officer, the boards on the epaulettes of his shirt revealing some sort of insignia. He also wore an automatic in a holster strapped to his side. A pair of dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. A rather smartly turned-out individual, I thought.

His subordinates were scruffy, their uniforms threadbare, their boots worn, some wore only sandals, some obviously still teenagers. All carried AK47’s except for two, one of whom was carrying a Russian RPG and the other an American Stinger shoulder-operated ground-to-air rocket launcher.

“Are you from the plane?” the officer asked in Portuguese.

“Yes, I’m the pilot, these are my passengers,” I replied also in Portuguese, although not quite so fluently.

The officer visibly relaxed. He looked at Maria.

“I know you. I saw you in Jamba - you’re with the Americans,” he said.

“Yes,” she acknowledged.

“What happened?”

“I think we were hit by a missile,” I replied.

The officer nodded. “MPLA,” he said matter-of-factly.

”It seems so. Have you any water?” I asked.

The officer called a trooper who approached. He had a large canister strapped to his back. He produced a metal mug. We three drank thirstily.

“Have you got any weapons and stuff?” the officer asked.

I merely shook my head.

“We are going to take you back to Jamba - it’s about thirty-five miles. Please take care, this area is full of mines, you’re lucky that you haven’t set one off. Please walk in single file and follow in the footsteps of him in front of you. Keep a good distance, about ten to fifteen yards from him. If he puts his foot on one, you don’t want to share his fate, okay? Do you understand?”

In concert, we nodded our heads to indicate that we understood.

It was now about mid-afternoon. We set off in single file, all obeying the officer’s instructions to the letter. He had sent scouts ahead and the troop followed rapidly along a barely discernible track, the going relatively easy in the flat terrain.

We must have covered half the distance, with the sun was ready to set when a halt was called in an omaramba. This is a dry riverbed, a wide shallow indentation in the flat ground, which fills with water only after heavy rains, which then flows into the Cuano River.

The landscape was bathed in grey, the orange streak left by the setting sun indicating the west. The troops carefully checked the selected camp area for mines before the men spread out. Perimeter guards were posted.

We three collapsed to the ground beneath one of the large gallery trees along the omaramba’s banks. We were exhausted, having had little or no sleep since the previous day. The UNITA officer saw to it that we were supplied with two ground sheets and two thin khaki blankets, apologising that it was all he could spare. He then also gave us a canteen of water and three vacuum-packed ration packs, which contained a vile-tasting concoction of pasta and meat sauce plus biscuits.

I inspected the unappetizing goo contained in the thick transparent plastic package.

“Probably some expired stuff that Trichardt picked up somewhere and sold to Savimbi making a bloody fortune out of the sale,” I commented mischievously.

Kowalski gave me a dirty look. Maria giggled. Still, we devoured the meal hungrily.

Afterwards Kowalski wandered away.

“I’ve been wondering about you. You must be CIA?” I said, looking at Maria. She did not reply which I took to be an affirmation. I thought I should put her at ease.

“Look, I’m South African, I fought the MPLA and the Cubans, we’re on the same side.”

“You know I still have to say, no comment.”

A true spook, I thought, she wasn’t going to let on to a thing.

“Sure, I just thought that given the circumstances, we could at least talk to one another. I’m just curious to know why you didn’t fly out on one of your own aircraft. You guys regularly fly into Jamba. I mean, I’ve seen your crowd there often enough in the past.”

“They don’t fly in that often anymore. The tripartite agreement they are negotiating between the warring factions, giving independence to Namibia, will change things. They’ve brokered a partial ceasefire, if that’s what you want to call it. The war will stop, the people will go to the polls, and the Cubans will withdraw,” she said matter-of-factly.

I threw my head back and guffawed. The Americans could be so naive at times!

“God, I can’t believe you all believe that. Savimbi wants to be president of Angola, and he really doesn’t give a damn as to how he achieves this. Besides, he’ll never hand his diamonds over to the government, no matter what!” I said, my voice full of scorn.

“You may be right,” she said quietly, “But I hope you are wrong.”

“Christ! You Americans are so gullible, believing there can be peace between the MPLA and UNITA - never going to happen! I know these people, I spent long enough in this war in this godforsaken place. God, this war has already cost well over a million lives.” I spat with annoyance.

She looked at me, a sad expression on her face.

“You South Africans are all the same; you can’t see any good in the blacks.”

“That’s not true!” I hissed but she was right. The whites merely went through the motions, pretending to accommodate the blacks. That was all bullshit; the majority of white South Africans were not ready to assimilate with the blacks.

Suddenly there was a flash and a loud explosion nearby. The shockwave blasted over us, breaking twigs and leaves from the trees.

At first, I thought it a mortar hit, but no other explosions followed. I then heard a loud wail pierce the air, coming from where the explosion had taken place. We did not move, afraid that we could be mistaken for whomever and some trigger-happy troops could open fire on us in the dark.

A few minutes later, the officer appeared out of the darkness.

“It’s your man,” he said. At first, I did not understand what the man meant, and then it dawned on me. Somehow, Kowalski had to be involved. I sprang to my feet.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I’m sorry; he stood on an anti-personnel mine. It blew his leg off. He’s bleeding badly and we’ve no medic with us. He should not have wondered away from the camp,” the officer replied, shaking his head resignedly.

“Oh my God.” Maria said sinking to the sand, sitting on her haunches, dropping her head into her hands.

A feeling of horror swept over me. By the time the officer and I got to Kowalski, the man was already dead, having rapidly lost blood when his femoral artery was severed. The sand was soaked in blood. I noticed distractedly that his left arm had also been virtually blown-off, only attached by a piece of flesh. I felt the bile rise in my throat.

I hunkered down next the mutilated body and looked up at the stars, overcome by a feeling of abject shock and horror.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I whispered and then exhaled a long drawn-out sigh. I’d been here before; the place was cruel, brutal, and uncompromising.

“There’s nothing more we can do now. Go back to the woman... my men will bury him here,” the officer said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I carefully retraced my steps and returned to Maria, dropping to the ground next to her, my mind numb And I unable to think clearly.

“He’s dead,” I said, “A mine blew him to bits.”

Maria’s hand flew to her mouth, her face an expression of shock, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing how callous my statement was. “I didn’t mean to put it to you like that. Apparently, he wandered off, probably to relieve himself, no more than twenty yards from the perimeter. They say there are millions of mines in this country.”

There was nothing more we could do. We were alone with our own thoughts.

We lay down on the groundsheets, each with a blanket. In the distance and through the quiet of the bush, we could hear the sound of a shovel as the rebels dug a hole in the omaramba in which to place Kowalski’s body. It was macabre and so senseless. My mind was a maelstrom of distorted thoughts. Christ! I thought - Kowalski’s body wasn’t even cold! This had to be as bad as it gets. Finally, exhaustion overcame me and I dropped off into a dead sleep.

We arrived at Jamba by the next afternoon. I never wanted to walk in Angola again. After what had happened to Kowalski, the trek through the bush had been a terrifying ordeal, our eyes continuously glued to the ground trying to ensure that we too did not accidentally step on a mine.

An immense sense of relief swept over me when entered the camp. Maria walked up from behind and grabbed my arm, smiling for the first time in a long while, her expression telling me that she felt as I did.

The officer took me before the camp commander, and I had to relate in finest detail the events that took place after our take-off. The senior officer asked me what had happened to the briefcases that Kowalski had carried. I feigned an air of indifference and said that as far as I knew he had abandoned them in the aircraft. I stated that I had not seen Kowalski with the cases when he fled from the burning wreck. I added that I could only assume that these had been destroyed in the fire. I told the officer that it had to be realized that there had been no time to save these or any other personal effects: the aircraft was about to explode. While telling him this, I wondered whether they had already questioned Maria, and what she had said or would say. I had not seen her since we’d been back at camp.

“Did Kowalski ever discuss the briefcases with you or indicate what these contained?” the officer asked.

I did my best to stare blankly at the officer for a second or two before replying.

“No. We hardly spoke to each other at all,” I said with what I hoped was a quizzical expression on my face.

The officer seemed satisfied and dismissed me.

Four days later a DC3 Dakota arrived from South Africa piloted by another ex-Air Force pilot who I knew. He was one of Trichardt’s other regular hired pilots. Maria suddenly appeared and boarded the empty aircraft with me, we sharing the two jump seats in the now bare cargo hold.

We said little until the aircraft crossed into Botswana and the pilot took it to its nominated flight level, ten thousand feet above sea level.

“What did you say about the briefcases?” she asked quietly.

There was no chance of being overheard. These aircraft were not sound insulated, the drone of the engines reverberating through the fuselage.

I stared at her for a moment. “Nothing” I said.

“Nor did I.”

Neither of us said anything for a long while.

“Are you going to mention what happened to these to Kowalski’s boss?” she asked finally.

That took me by surprise.

“That may depend on what you expect me to say,” I finally replied having let a few seconds elapse. Her mention of Kowalski’s boss intrigued me.

She did not reply but stared at her hands in her lap. She then finally spoke.

“You know that they contained millions in dollars and diamonds?”

“Really?” I replied sarcastically, with a pretence of surprise, but smiling. I realized that she did not quite know how to get her view on the matter over to me; she was obviously afraid that I would be appalled by her thoughts.

“You think we should keep the briefcases a secret between us, don’t you?” I ventured.

“Yes.” She replied immediately, turning to look at me, her dark eyes wide, assessing me, trying to interpret my reaction.

“So do I,” I said, then quickly added. “That’s agreed then. Let’s not discuss it any further. We believe these were destroyed in the crash when Kowalski abandoned them in the aircraft - agreed?”

“Yes,” she murmured, smiling for the first time. “It’s not stealing, it’s only taking them from somebody who has already stolen them - isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

Not only was she beautiful, but she was ingenious as well, I thought.

Chapter Five

The DC3 landed at Lanseria in the early hours of the morning. Trichardt in his Mercedes with his driver was there to meet us. The moment Trichardt greeted Maria, I realized that they knew each other. While this did not come as a total surprise - I had not forgotten her reference to Kowalski’s boss, it still left me with a feeling of apprehension. The briefcases were still foremost in mind. Some of that fortune, probably most of it, belonged to Trichardt. Had she lured me into a trap to establish my true bona fides? A feeling of concern washed over me.

Again, I had to relate what had happened, this time in the presence of Maria who confirmed everything I told the man. I started to relax and realized that that apparently she was not that close to the man; it seemed our secret was safe.

“Look, Mr Trichardt, I’m sorry about Kowalski and your aircraft... it all happened so fast,” I said.

“Nothing you could’ve done about it,” Trichardt said, his attitude tainted with a degree of nonchalance. “When doing this type of thing, the loss of an aircraft is an occupational hazard. But then I’m sure you know that such an eventuality is built into the price. Still, you did well to off-load the cargo; that was the real value. It’s just such a damn shame about Kowalski - he was a good man. I’m just surprised that he abandoned the briefcases, but then, I wasn’t there.”

“It was quite a shock - the landmine, I mean. Kowalski was very concerned that he had not rescued the cases from the flames, but the aircraft was already on fire when the plane eventually slid to a stop. We barely made it out with our lives. An explosion was only seconds away,” Maria said softly.

Trichardt nodded his head.

“Look, Peter, the plane’s loss was not your fault. In fact, I’m amazed and pleased that you got away with your lives. I’ll pay you your other half as soon as you come round to the office and collect the cheque. I want you to do further flights for me: I’ll reward you well. And had Kowalski had any family here, I would’ve looked after their needs. I would like you to know that.”

I was amazed. So he did care. I hoped that I concealed the sudden feeling of guilt that came over me. God, here the man was offering me an opportunity to earn further money and I had already comprised the loyalty and honesty between us!

“Well, I’ll talk to my partner about it and discuss it with you when I come round to collect the cheque - that’ll be soon.”

“Can we give you a lift?” Trichardt asked.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get my partner to fetch me. Anyway, it’s nearly dawn; our offices are right here.”

We said goodbye, Maria’s farewell a sort of “nice knowing you” greeting indicating that we would not be seeing each other again. Of course, she had my number, and I had a contact number to get hold of her. We would phone each other at the first available opportunity.

I phoned Gavin who responded immediately, arriving about forty-five minutes later. He opened the office, and while he started the percolator and prepared the coffee cups, I proceeded to tell him the events. Gavin was elated to hear that we could collect the other half of the payment despite the loss of the aircraft. I also told him that Trichardt had asked that I undertake further flights.

“Christ! The money would come in handy. I mean, this last lot will tide us over, but we’ll need more. But, of course, Peter... it’s entirely up to you. I would not want to persuade you,” Gavin said, trying hard to be offhand.

You lying bastard, I thought. The man’s infatuated with money. That I could die, be damned! I noticed that he had yet to volunteer to take one himself. I decided that I should press him into doing a few flights. The business about being a jet jockey and not a bush pilot was no more than a bloody excuse. Let him lay his life on the line for a change! I knew it had nothing to do with fear. Was his reluctance because he was married with two small kids?

“You should do a flight or two,” I ventured strongly.

Gavin appeared startled.

“I don’t think so; commercial aircraft that size are not my forte. Anyway, I have the impression Trichardt doesn’t like me although, for what reason I wouldn’t know,” he said nonchalantly, as if the idea was not worth considering.

I was about to tell Gavin about the briefcases but then, for some unknown reason, thought better of it and remained silent. Anyway, it would not be right to do so without talking to Maria; we had said we would keep it to ourselves.

Promptly at quarter to eight Shirley and Mike arrived, both happy to see me. Shirley hugged me. They knew that I had taken a flight on behalf of Trichardt but really did not know much more, other than that a handsome fee had been obtained. Shirley looked after the banking and books of the company and knew of every cash movement and a lot more.

“Glad to see you back, boss,” the burly aircraft mechanic come pilot said, shaking my hand, a wide smile on his mouth. He was the quiet type, seldom speaking, just getting on with his job. He too had been in the Air Force, on the maintenance side, an excellent all-round wizard with a string of certificates to his name.

“Shirley, we’ll be fetching another of those nice cheques in the next day or two,” Gavin said this for Max and Shirley’s benefit.

“That’s terrific; we can get all our payments up-to-date, which should stop the calls from the creditors,” she laughed. She gave Mike an “I told you so” look. I smiled to himself, Mike was a born pessimist and was sure the company was about to collapse. He did not know how close it had been!.

“Incidentally, Peter,” Shirley said. “Francine enquired as to your whereabouts.”

I merely harrumphed. From Shirley’s expression, it was clear that she was in the know; she and Francine were friends, often lunching together at the airport cafeteria. She probably knew that Francine had spent the night at my place.

Not good, I thought.

However, on the second day after my return, I phoned Francine. We agreed to meet for a drink at the airport pub.

I walked into the crowded bar. It was one of those modern glass, chrome and mirror designs, the L-shaped bar topped with imitation marble slabs. The lighting was subdued other than behind the bar where mirrors reflected the hidden light into the interior. High tables with barstools were scattered on the open floor with ordinary tables and chairs along the walls. Large model aircraft hung from the ceiling, lest you forget you were at an airport.

I immediately saw Francine sitting on a bar stool with another of the airline’s employees. Her features lit up noticeably the moment she saw me and she smiled, flashing perfect brilliantly white teeth. As I got to her, I was momentarily confused, not quite sure what to do. She solved the problem. She slid off the stool, grabbed my jacket’s labels, and pulling my mouth down to hers she kissed me on the lips. Not a peck but neither a lingering kiss. This did not go unnoticed by our other acquaintances in the bar!

Francine patted the barstool next to her indicating, that I should sit down.

“I missed you,” she said, taking my hand.

I merely smiled; this was going to be difficult.

We ordered drinks. A few minutes later Shirley and Mike joined us in the bar for a drink before going home. Shirley was clearly elated. Probably the fact that she no longer needed to field irate creditor calls, no repossessions by the banks or job losses being threatened. I could see that even Mike looked happier. No doubt, Shirley had told him there was no need to worry. Nothing is ever secret in a small business for long!

As the evening progressed, I realized that Francine was looking to me to make some suggestion as to how we proposed to spend the rest of the night. I feigned being somewhat exhausted; actually I was tired, but eventually suggested dinner at a small local country restaurant a few miles away from the airport. We left in our individual cars and at about eight walked into the Trattotoria Palermo, locally known for good wine and simple but exquisite Italian cuisine.

Her beautiful blue eyes twinkled with happiness. She was gushing with bonhomie and warmth, clearly excited that the two of us were alone again. She had cast off any reserve she may have previously displayed.

We settled for a bottle of Chianti wine and while I ordered the spaghetti mariana, she ordered flat chicken baked in the pizza oven, with an exquisite tomato based sauce, potatoes and marrows. We dispensed with the usual starters and dessert, but chose Irish coffees to end the meal, the sexual tension growing all the while.

Standing at her car, we kissed passionately. I felt her tongue against my teeth and her pelvis against me. I grabbed her buttocks and pulled her close, sending a message of my needs to her.

Hang on! I thought. This is not what you planned. Involuntarily I suddenly jerked away and held her at half arm’s length.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked frowning, her face upturned at me.

“No, no,” I replied nervously.

“Well, are we going to my place or yours? Rather mine, you’re so far out, nearly in the bush - let’s go to my place.”

“Francine sweet, I don’t think so. I’ve a flight out of here to-morrow morning at five. That means up at four. Let’s get together when I’m back, okay?” I said, feeling like a true bastard.

She was clearly disappointed, but being involved with aviation herself, she knew I was being sensible.

“All right, when you get back let’s get together again - quickly.”

We kissed again to seal the date.

Three days passed with no word from Maria.

I had wanted to send Gavin to collect the cheque from Trichardt’s office but Trichardt had been explicit that I was to come personally. His secretary immediately handed it to me when I walked in, reminding me to produce an invoice.

“I promise,” I smiled, about to leave.

“Don’t leave, Mr. Trichardt has insisted that you see him. I’ve been told to interrupt his meeting as soon as you arrive. Please wait.” She indicated a chair and disappeared into the boardroom.

A minute later Trichardt stepped out of the room, greeted me with a smile and led me to his private office. He seated himself behind the large desk, waving me to a seat.

“I’ve another job, an important one but it’s dangerous - that’s why I’m paying a handsome price.”

He paused, letting me digest the significance of what he had just said. I didn’t show any reaction.

“A hundred and fifty thousand - half up front, the rest when the job’s done,” he continued, removing a cigar from an ornate box in front of him and slowly peeling off the cellophane wrapping. Knowing that I didn’t smoke, he did not offer me one.

I was momentarily stunned at the amount, but realized at that the price it had to be damn dangerous.

“What does it entail?” I asked, not quite able to keep a croak out of my voice.

Trichardt laughed. “I thought you’d ask.”

I had to laugh as well. He’d read me well!

“I’ve something extremely valuable I need collected from Lunda Sul, that’s north.....”

“I know where it is,” I interrupted. “That’s beyond Moxico province on the edge of the Congo River basin. Jesus, that’s deep in MPLA controlled territory. That means flying almost directly over the Cuban Mig base at Luena in Moxico!”

I thought for a few seconds and then continued, “Lunda Sul.... That can only be diamonds.”

He drew on his cigar, blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “You surprise me, you’re well informed.”

“Christ! You can’t fight in Angola and not know that!” I paused, thinking hard. “You can’t do that with a prop-driven aircraft, the flight track will take you just past Luena Air Force base; you’re going to have half the Angolan Air Force after you. I mean, the place is a serious Mig fighter centre, it bristles with radar, missiles, and what have you - serious aerial surveillance equipment. Flying under the radar won’t work. Christ! I don’t think it can be done... maybe from Zaire, yes?”

“You’re right again, but I’ve got a jet which can handle the runway at Lunda Sul and give any missiles or Migs a run for their money,” Trichardt replied, a smug expression on his face.

“But that’s got to be more than a thousand miles from here! Your jet better have a good range. Not even a Mirage with drop-tanks could do it - and anything else would just be too damn slow. They’ll be coming at you with their Migs’ afterburners lit up!”

A mischievous smile crossed Trichardt’s face.

“Yes, it’s fitted with drop tanks, which of course, it will not drop. These will be filled at Lunda Sul again for the non-stop flight back.”

“Another night flight, I presume?”

“Of course. Well, what do you think?” “When is this supposed to happen?” Peter asked.

“Within the next few weeks.”

“You tell me what aircraft and I’ll tell you if I’ll do it.”

Trichardt laughed, displaying his perfect veneered teeth.

“You are in for a surprise - it’s a Northrop T38A Talon two-seater trainer; nine hundred miles an hour and a range of a thousand miles on internal tanks alone. No armaments, so it can carry two serious drop-tanks.”

“How on Earth did you pick that up? I thought that was still an unobtainable piece of American military equipment,” I blurted in surprise.

“Let’s just say it has been lent to me... ask no more.”

“Okay... consider your offer accepted, but give me a few days will you? I’m going to mention this to my partner; he was a fighter pilot, he may be the better man for this particular job - are you all right with that?”

Trichardt nodded.

“I know of him.”

I returned to Lanseria and waited impatiently for Gavin to return. He had flown a group of German tourists to the Fish River Canyon in South West Africa/Namibia with the Cessna Caravan, and was only due back that afternoon.

I was in his office trying to keep busy and out of Shirley’s way when my phone rang.

“There’s some woman on the line,” said Shirley, “who wants to speak to you. Her name is Maria Garcia and she insists that you will take the call.” Shirley was clearly not pleased. Knowing her, I realized she obviously had tried to bully Maria wanting to know what the call was about. Christ! I thought, I could just picture it, Shirley being persistent as only she could be and Maria being demanding, not prepared to state a reason.

“Put her through.” With an audible irritated click of her tongue Shirley connected me.

“Hello Maria, is that you?” I said, feeling my own excitement rise at the thought of hearing her voice.

“Yes, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Where are you?”

“In Durban, I’m here for another ten days before I leave. Can we meet?” Maria asked.

“Hold on,” I said, covering the mouthpiece with my hand. I called Shirley who stuck her head into my door.

“Is there a charter flight booked to the Natal coast during the next few days?”

“Yes, next Saturday.”

“I’ll pilot it,” I told her with a grin on my face.

“Maria, I’ll be there on Saturday, is that all right?”

“That’s perfect. I’m staying at the Maharani Hotel on the Esplanade - you know it?’

“Of course. I’ll book into the same hotel. I’ll see you around eight in the main lounge, okay?”

Shirley looked disapproving as I told her I would personally take the flight and asked that she book me into the Maharani Hotel with an open-ended departure date.

“Are you meeting with that woman?” she asked.

“It’s business,” I said coolly. Hell, why did I say that? Now it really sounded like a seedy illicit liaison.

Shirley merely harrumphed and ratcheted up her haughtiness a notch or two. She was probably wondering what business I could possibly have with this unknown woman. I ignored her. Christ! This thing with Francine really had been a mistake! Shirley was now taking a too close interest in my doings!

Gavin arrived back after five. I dragged him into his office and made him sit down while I got him some coffee.

“What’s this all about?” Gavin asked.

“How would you like to fly a Northrop F5 - well a T38A rather - same thing really, but no weapons and without any hard points for armaments?”

“Bloody hell! You’re shitting me. Where did you find that?” Gavin asked a look of shock on his face.

“Trichardt’s got one; he says he borrowed it. I didn’t ask from whom. He’s looking for somebody to fly it non-stop to northern Angola, fitted with drop tanks. Oh, it’ll be a night flight - flat-out without the afterburners kicked in... you only use those if you get into the shit. He’s paying one hundred and fifty grand. But it’s dangerous. Are you interested?”

“Damn sure I am,” Gavin replied, just about able to contain his enthusiasm.

So, his reluctance to fly other flights into Angola had nothing to do with balls, I thought. Well, that was a comforting thought; he was still the devil-may-care fighter pilot.

“It’s dangerous,” I repeated. “You’ve got to pass Luena in Moxico province. You know all about the place. They’ll pick you up on their screens, but whether they’ll launch their fighters at night, well, we don’t know. Anyway, you won’t be looking for a fight. He’ll pay a hundred and fifty thousand, the usual half now, and the rest on return. All you have to do is collect a parcel from Lunda Sul. I rather gather the government is going to be looking the other way considering your point of departure. This is sure to carry their blessing otherwise Trichardt wouldn’t be doing it.”

That was a lie but I needed to convince him.

“It’s just that they don’t want to be seen to be involved in an operation like this.”

“Savimbi’s diamond mines?”

I nodded. “I think that the MPLA is about to overrun the mines, or so rumour says.”

“Fuck! A hundred and fifty thousand, that’s a bloody fortune. Do you think he’ll let me do it?”

“I think I can persuade him; you’re the jetfighter whiz-kid on the block, not me.”

“Talk to him.”

“I have, I just needed to be sure you’re A to go!”

The next morning I phoned Trichardt and confirmed that Gavin was up to the task.

“I’ll put wheels in motion; the job has to be done within the next few days,” Trichardt replied. Trichardt certainly had the clout. Gavin was to take-off from Waterkloof Air Force base near Pretoria, a high security area; that certainly needed government approval. You’d have to be well connected to be granted permission to make use of their facilities.

Gavin and I discussed the proposed flight. We decided that he would follow a track that took him into Zambia at a flight-level of forty thousand feet. Abeam of Lunda Sul, he would turn west to enter Angolan airspace from the east, descending in a long shallow dive, which would allow him to wind his airspeed up to about Mach 1.6 when entering Angola. Nobody would complain about the sonic boom. The stay on the ground at Lunda Sul would be brief, only long enough to refuel the aircraft, and he would follow the same route on his return journey, but first flying south and then east just to confuse the Cubans... The Cubans were not known to enter Zambian airspace and it was hoped they would not consider doing this now. The flight would be done the coming Saturday, when I would be flying to Durban.

Chapter Six

I landed the Piper Seneca at Durban’s Virginia Airport, a municipal airfield on the outskirts of the city. After assisting the three passengers through the terminal and to the waiting car that would whisk them off to their hotel, I collected my own holdall and then also collected a hired car. I smiled to myself as I thought of the conclusion Shirley would make when she saw the bill. That woman really was something, but she certainly was an asset. I shrugged. Normally, the business considered this an extravagance but if anybody complained, I’d carry the expense myself.

I booked in and immediately went up to my room. It was only three in the afternoon. I turned on the air-conditioning and then collapsed on the bed, promptly falling asleep.

I woke with a start and looked at my watch. It was a quarter to seven; I had an hour in which to get ready. I showered and dressed in navy pants with a light blue lounge shirt without tie, black slip-on shoes, and a lightweight grey sports jacket. I thought this was smart, but casual.

The lounge was on the first floor, with a row of huge windows from ceiling to floor looking out over the beach and Indian Ocean. The sun had set, the very last of the day disappearing. Already all the lights in the lounge were on. The room was half-full, the waiters busy serving drinks. I found a table in a corner and sat in a big easy chair facing the entrance. A waiter hovering nearby quickly approached; I ordered a beer.

Just after seven, Maria Garcia entered the lounge, her red cocktail dress reaching just above her knees revealing long beautiful bare legs. Her shoulders were also bare except for the two thin straps holding up a bodice, which subtly revealed some cleavage while making the upper prominence of her breasts clearly visible. She wore a pair of plain gold high-heeled shoes with sharp pointed toes, and carried a small matching handbag. With makeup and jewellery, a necklace, a watch and a bracelet on her wrist, I could not believe the transformation -the woman was radiant, a truly striking beauty.

She sauntered up to me and shook my hand, a friendly smile on her face, her white teeth flashing.

“My God,” I blurted. “You’re beautiful!” I realized I was possibly making a fool of myself and quickly added, “Sorry, I was just bowled over for a moment - what a transformation from Angola!”

She laughed. “I just love it when men say such things about me. Although I must add, you also look a little different. Quite nice, in fact.”

She sat down and the waiter appeared.

“Bacardi rum with coke with a slice of lemon,” she smiled.

“Did anybody ask why you’re meeting with me?” she asked, looking over the rim of her glass as she took a sip from her drink.

“Well, my secretary thinks it’s some liaison. I didn’t tell her that, she just assumed.”

She chuckled. “Interesting, woman’s intuition.”

What was that supposed to mean, I thought.

“That’s okay, as long they don’t know the real reason. I’ve mentioned this to nobody.”

“What are you still doing here?” I asked.

“I’m actually taking a break. I thought Durban was a good place to have a holiday... and I have just a little business to conclude. I’m leaving next week. I can’t tell you much, except that it involves your friend Trichardt and some officials from your government.”

I had been right; she had to be employed by some American intelligence agency.

“Incidentally,” she continued, “Trichardt questioned me again about the diamonds.”

I jerked up my head and looked hard at her.

“Do you think he’s suspicious?” I asked in a lowered voice.

“I don’t think so. But rest assured, I think he is exploring every avenue. It is a lot of money, the cash, and diamonds - he knows it’s quite a temptation. I think he just finds it difficult to believe that Kowalski just abandoned the cases knowing the value of what they contained.”

This is some woman, I thought. The more we interacted, the more I liked her.

“If he gets the slightest suspicion, he’ll make it his business to follow-up. The man’s dangerous - he’s got quite a reputation. We’d be in serious trouble if he even thought the diamonds were still around. Let’s not even talk about his connections with the South African government.” I said.

She could not but notice the concern in my voice or the look of apprehension on my face. She took another sip of her drink.

“I know the man - and you’re right. However, what’s done is done: what now?” She lifted her empty glass at me indicating that she was looking for another.

The woman did not frighten easily.

I ordered another round, taking my time to reply. When the waiter left, I spoke quietly.

“We leave everything as it is, and let things cool down. I’m talking a generous period here, maybe six months or more. I’m assuming that we’re going to keep the spoils and split these fifty-fifty?”

She nodded.

“Good. We keep an eye on developments in Angola - that’s your forte. And when things cool down and all is forgotten, you sneak back here, I mean nobody knows you’re around and then we just go and dig them up... just you and me.”

“Sounds good. I’m going back to the States as I’ve said, but we’ll keep in touch. I’ll give you a special private number where you can leave a message.”

She bent forward to retrieve her bag from the floor and I caught a brief glimpse of her ample breasts. I felt a surge of desire. The woman attracted me.

We exchanged telephone numbers: I gave her my private number at the bungalow where she could leave a message, and against her number, I wrote the name, Mary.

“We have a problem, however. All the diamonds are rough,” I said. “What are we going to do with them? Possession of rough diamonds in South Africa is a criminal offence. Christ! We wouldn’t want to rescue the lot and then find ourselves locked up.”

“That’s not going to happen. The biggest danger is when we try to sell them. If word gets back to the wrong people, we’re as good as dead. We’ll have Trichardt and Savimbi’s operatives after us. They both have people in Europe and the States - I know,” she said. “This would not be the first time that’s happened. They have pursued people all over Europe. They’ve killed more people than you’d like to know and this in the biggest cities of Europe.”

Changing the subject, I filled her in on my background and career history, and she told me a little about her family’s escape from Cuba and how difficult it was establishing a new home in Florida, USA when the near penniless family spoke little English and initially had to rely on hand-outs. I gathered that she was not married and that her job left her little opportunity to see to the needs of her private life.

“Listen, before we get off the subject,” I said. “I’ve got a partner and we’re very close: I’ve been through wars with this guy. It’s difficult to hide something like this. I want to tell him, besides he could eventually help us. Actually, I think his help would be essential.”

She just stared at me for a while. “You know the old adage, the more who know the more dangerous it is,” she finally replied.

“I know... I know!” I had to agree.

She seemed to come to a decision. “Okay, he’s in for a third, but he must share everything with us. Is that okay?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

She looked at her watch. It was after nine.

“I’ve not eaten yet. Why don’t you join me in the dining room for a late supper?” she said.

I agreed. The dining room was not a dining room in the old sense, but rather a restaurant with a distinctly eastern flavour. Numerous round tables with chairs surrounded a small dance-floor, and a four-piece band was playing modern-day tunes. Already a few couples were on the floor.

“You dance?” she asked.

“I do.”

She said no more but took the menu proffered by the waiter.

I was hungry and the food was excellent. We discussed America and my flying experiences, and she related a few of her own humorous incidents of flying into Africa.

I found myself strongly attracted to her, aware of her every movement, gesture, and expression and it seemed that she found my company similarly pleasant, her face lighting up with laughter every time the occasion arose. The band played music that befitted the atmosphere of an upmarket place of entertainment frequented not by the young but rather well established business people and well-heeled tourists. There was no wild gyrating on the floor.

The waiter had just brought liqueurs when I asked her whether she would like to dance. She flashed me a wide smile.

“I’m Cuban; of course I’d love to dance. It’s my home country’s favourite pastime,” she replied laughing, rising from her chair.

I took her hand and led her to the small dance floor where she stepped forward, her face close to my right cheek. I was acutely aware of her breasts against my chest and the smell of her. I had to suppress a slight shiver of apprehension. We then glided across the floor in unison.

“You dance well,” she whispered in my ear.

Did I imagine it or had she moved even closer to me? Our cheeks touched, I was aware of her leg between my thighs, and the subtle touch of her pelvis. Were it not for the other guests I would have kissed her; I knew that taken up in the ardour of the moment, she would reciprocate.

This was not what I had in mind, I thought bemusedly. This lent a new dimension to the relationship. She worked in a predominantly male world and with her beauty must often be confronted by the overzealous advances of her male counterparts. She was probably well versed in handling such situations.

Still, I sensed an invitation.

“You are beautiful,” I whispered.

“Hmmm, you’ve said that before,” she said in a breathless husky voice. As one we moved slowly across the floor, our bodies merged, her face nuzzled in the nook of my neck. I was aroused, she was surely aware of my hardness pressed against her. She did not avoid it, but appeared to want her body to rub against me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter signalling at the edge of the dance-floor, trying to draw our attention.

“Oh, that could be for me,” she murmured regretfully.

She disengaged herself and walked over to the waiter, who handed her a note. Realizing that the dance was over, I returned to the table.

“Peter,” she said, using my name for the first time. “I’m dreadfully sorry. Somebody is waiting for me at reception. I’m afraid its work related. I must go, but please remember, we stay in touch.”

She moved close and kissed me fleetingly on the lips before picking up her purse and walking towards the exit.

I made an effort not to reveal that her sudden departure left me with a profound feeling of disappointment. At the entrance, she turned and gave me a wave. She seemed sad.

I abandoned the table and walked down the stairs to the ground floor, taking a stool in the Cane Cutters bar and ordering a double whiskey on the rocks. I sipped slowly, my elbows on the counter. I felt as if somebody had just pulled the rug from under a very pleasant evening. Dejected, I thought that after a second drink I would retire to my room.

About fifteen minutes later the bar phone rang and answering, the barman walked over to me and handed it to me.

“Sir it’s for you,” he said.

Surprised, I took the phone. “Hello?”

“How’d I know you’d be in the bar?” she laughed. “Peter, I’m truly sorry. I would’ve loved to have stayed, but could not. All I can say is that a serious matter called me away; I had no alternative. I had a wonderful evening and I can’t wait to let’s say... bring the evening to a proper conclusion - maybe next time.” There was a clear inference, into which I could read what I wished.

“I’ll make sure there’s a next time,” I grinned into the phone.

“Good. So remember - phone me.”

With that, the line went dead.

Chapter Seven

I arrived back at the office in Lanseria around eight on Sunday morning. No more than ten minutes later, Gavin’s Range Rover swept into the parking lot and my partner stepped out of the car.

He burst into the office still carrying his holdall, his old fighter flight suit drabbed over his arm, his scratched flight helmet clasped in his hand, his face flushed and a smile on his lips.

“I take it you had a good flight?” I asked sarcastically.

“Christ! What a flight! I entered Angola from Zambia so bloody fast the Cuban’s didn’t have time to react. Man, was I moving! What an aircraft - you can’t believe it, Peter. I didn’t spend more than thirty minutes on the ground. As soon as I was fuelled, I was out of there, afterburners kicked in, first south and then making for Zambia at a thousand feet and eight hundred miles an hour. It wasn’t long and I was in Zambian airspace.”

“Glad to hear it was so easy.”

“Lusaka Control picked me up on radar. Hell, they screamed! Who was I? What were my intentions? Where was I going? The guy was beside himself! I tell you, I put a good distance between me and the border before I eased off and turned south again. Christ! Then next, it was our chaps. Hell, I think they were ready to scramble a few Mirages but somehow they must have been told what was going on. They cleared me through to Waterkloof.” He couldn’t stop laughing.

“I know what you mean - I’ve been there,” I chuckled. In my mind, I could picture the consternation in Lusaka tower.

“We’ve made another one hundred and fifty.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Hell, you’ve done more than your bit.”

I didn’t respond.

“How was Durban?”

“Okay. Look Gavin, I think we need to stop these covert cross-border flights now. They’re too dangerous. The business is okay right now. Why take any more chances? What do you think?”

“I agree.” He smiled. “Unless of course, they give me another flight on that T38!”

“I’ll tell Trichardt.”

We spoke some more about his flight: he was still infused with enthusiasm.

“You look down, what’s wrong?” Gavin asked suddenly, clearly concerned. “Shirley said you were meeting some woman in Durban. Was it business or...?”

“It was both, or at least I hope so, maybe...I’m sure she also thought it was both.”

“Hmm, what about Francine?”

“Ja.., what about Francine - that’s a problem, but of my own making. I’ll deal with it.”

“Peter listen, I’m worried. Trichardt keeps asking me about the briefcases - wants to know whether you’ve said anything to me. Is something going on that I should know?” Gavin asked suddenly serious.

“Come on, let’s go and find breakfast, I’ve got to tell you something,” I said making a decision as I rose from my chair.

Gavin dumped his stuff in his office and we walked to the terminal building and the cafeteria. We both ordered coffee and the full breakfast, taking a table alongside the glass wall overlooking the airport apron.

“How close to Trichardt are you?” I asked.

“Not at all, I can’t understand why he keeps bugging me,” Gavin said in a surly tone, cutting his food. “But it’s beginning to worry me, what have you done?”

I had no choice, I needed to nip this in the bud. I could not have Trichardt pressing Gavin.

“Gavin, please just stay calm. I’m going to tell you something really wild. Listen carefully - remember no wild exclamations hey? Just stay calm. I know where the briefcases are. They never were destroyed,” I whispered.

He looked up at me in shock. “What! What about that other guy? What really happened to him?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “You guys didn’t kill him or something?”

I tut-tutted. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous! Please man, don’t let your imagination run away.., he really died in a mine explosion! It was an accident,” I said exasperatedly. “We had already buried the diamonds. We did that immediately after the crash - he was going to come back later and fetch them. In fact, he asked me whether I wouldn’t help him to collect them again. Now it’s only the American woman and I who know where they are.”

“So, you’re stealing them from Trichardt?”

“No, we’re not - from the terrorists, yes.”

“Fuck, he’s going to kill you.”

“Well, he’s not going to find out, is he?” I asked, giving him a hard stare.

“No, he’s not, not from me he’s not.”

“Good, now that we’ve settled that, you should know that I discussed this with the American woman, Maria Garcia. No doubt you’ve heard her name from Shirley.”

Gavin nodded.

“You being my equal partner and all, she’s agreed that we share this three-ways, provided we all put our bit in. How’s that?” I asked, staring at him smiling.

He didn’t say anything but just kept on chewing, looking down at his plate, and then chasing his food with a swallow of coffee. He wiped his lips with the napkin and looked up at me with this dead serious expression on his face.

There was a long pause.

“All right, partner.... I’m in!” He burst out laughing. “How much are we talking about?”

“A fuckin’ fortune,” I replied.

After hearing my detailed description of the series of events, we agreed that the briefcases should remain where they were until things had changed in Angola, even if this took a year or more. The cases weren’t going anywhere. Not another word was to be mentioned - we were to just get on with our business and our lives. Gavin also suggested that I communicate with Maria maybe only once every few months. I reluctantly agreed; it made sense. He said he would somehow get Trichardt to stop hounding him.

I made contact with Maria and told her that Gavin was in for a third. She sounded happy with the decision; at least this would no longer be a source of stress for me. We would wait to see what politically developed in Angola before thinking about retrieving the briefcases. She added that she would also, through her sources, endeavour to find out where best to dispose of the contents of the briefcases when that day arrived.

Neither of us mentioned the interrupted dinner in Durban but its implication still hung there. It would be a long while before we would see each other again - civil war still raged in south-eastern Angola.