Early Summer - 1991

Chapter Eight

For two days, a low-pressure system hovered over the Mozambique Channel socking in most of the country’s interior. Only the southern and western coastal regions were spared. Flying conditions were atrocious, if not downright dangerous with the country swathed in miles of low-lying cloud, mist, and continuous on-off rain the order of the day. Airline schedules were shot to hell. If you valued your company’s good name, you simply refused to undertake any flights in these conditions.

With the cash infusion the business had received a year or so ago, Gavin and I had been able to extract the business from its downward slide into a near bankrupt situation and turn it into a viable upmarket air charter company, with a modern fleet of five aircraft and two additional pilots. We spent more on advertising, and were now better equipped to approach blue-chip companies and offer competitive executive air travel packages to their corporate boards and senior management. We also canvassed large international corporations, both mining and industrial who had interests in South Africa.

To that end, we had purchased a Cessna Citation, a twinjet executive aircraft capable of accommodating 12 passengers as well as a Beechcraft King-Air twin turbo-prop executive airliner. Currently, we toyed with the idea of going into the helicopter business. We moved our offices and took over a complete hangar complex with its own office frontage, large enough to accommodate all our aircraft.

Our stalwart aircraft mechanic, Mike Holloway had not been overlooked. He now had a qualified aircraft mechanic, two apprentices, and three labourers to assist him. Even Shirley had eventually relented and let us hire additional female help for the office.

Gavin and I had almost identical adjoining offices with access to these controlled by Shirley. I wasn’t flying today, not that I flew as often as I used to. Gavin and I confined ourselves to flying the two new aircraft usually hired by the executives of our best clients. We ensured that they received the standard of service they paid for; Gavin and I personally saw to their needs.

Shirley had just dumped a thick file containing invoices and cheques needing to be counter-signed on my desk. Outside it still drizzled, the water outside my windows trickling from the roof to the ground as the building was not fitted with gutters. The windows were closed and to offset the sudden cold weather, the air conditioners were blowing warm air into the interior.

We had not discussed the briefcases in Angola for months, and nor had I heard from Maria. It had to be at least six months since I had last spoken to her. Trichardt had long since stopped enquiring about these, probably because Gavin eventually managed to convince him that what we had said was true - the cases had gone up in smoke.

Trichardt was still involved with Savimbi, and we were still occasionally approached by him, but refused to do additional flights to Jamba. It was just too dangerous.

Also, South West Africa had gained its independence from South Africa in early 1990 after a protracted civil war. It was now named Namibia, and the ruling SWAPO government’s relationship with the Angolan MPLA who had been their main supporters during the war was very good. They, with the MPLA, saw the UNITA movement as a common enemy.

Of course, this also stemmed from the fact that the South African apartheid government still covertly supported UNITA, although after the Tripartite Accord of 1989, which led to Namibia’s independence, her support should have been withdrawn.

There was a knock on the door, and Shirley stuck her head into the room.

“I’ve a call on the line for you from a woman, she sounds American. She says she’s Mary Donkin.”

“Put it through. I’ll take it,” I said absent-mindedly.

“Hello, Peter van Onselen speaking.”

“Peter, is that you?”

I instantly recognized the voice; it was Maria.

“Hi Mary, this is a surprise. Where are you phoning from?” I asked. Christ! I thought could my phones be tapped? I didn’t believe that. What was her problem? There had to be a reason for the subterfuge, I thought. After her return to the States, this was the first time she had phoned me at the office.

“I’m in town and I’m looking to hire an aircraft. There are just two of us, so something small will do. Of course, this will only be after the weather clears,” she said.

“Certainly. When do you require it?”

She certainly was playing the hush-hush bit to the full.

“Here, let me give you a number, just ask for me. Phone me when you are not busy - will you do that?”

I said I would. I jotted down the number she gave me, and then slowly replaced the receiver, not yet having overcome my surprise. Whenever I thought of Maria, I invariably saw her in the red cocktail dress she had worn when I last saw her, bending down so I could see the flash of her breasts.

I opened the adjoining door to Gavin’s office. He looked up as I walked in.

“What’s up?” he enquired, his pen hovering over the documents he was working on.

“She was just on the phone.”

“Who the hell is ‘she’?” he asked, not entirely pleased.

“Maria.”

He dropped the pen and jerked upright in his chair, his mood immediately different.

“For Chrissake!” he blurted his surprise evident on his face. “Well, why did she call? Stupid question! You’ve got to know why she’s called.”

I just nodded my head. “She’s in the country. She said I should phone, obviously from somewhere secure. I just wanted to let you know.”

Thanks.”

This rather ruined the rest of my day. I just couldn’t concentrate anymore. I quickly finished signing the cheques Shirley wanted, grabbed my coat, and told her I was going out for a while.

I drove down the feeder road from the airport to the main highway. At the intersection, there was a petrol station where we maintained an account, all the company vehicles refuelling there. I parked the car and walked into the owner’s office. I said I’d forgotten something important at the office and asked whether I could use his phone.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m going out but feel free.”

I took the piece paper from my pocket and dialled the number. Maria answered immediately.

“Hi, what’s with this bloody cloak and dagger stuff?” I asked.

“Listen carefully, he hasn’t forgotten. I met him in the States a few months ago; it was a government get-together do. He made some sick joke about how that I was now living in the lap of luxury. Well, it was damn obvious what he was getting at. Be sure, I got the meaning - be careful, the man’s still suspicious.”

For a moment, I didn’t realize whom she was talking about; then it dawned on me - it was Trichardt! God yes, she was right to be careful.

“That’s why I’ve snuck into the country - under an assumed name. I’ve taken a five-week furlough - anyway, I had backlog of leave due. But that’s not why I phoned. Let’s get together.”

I agreed. She gave me the name of some nondescript but good hotel in Sandton. We arranged for eight-thirty that evening. She said I was to come up to her suite.

When I put the phone down, I suddenly remembered that I had a dinner date with Francine. I phoned her from the same phone, telling her that something had come up and that I needed to take a rain check. She was disappointed but I promised to phone the next day.

Initially, I had resisted any involvement with Francine, but it was not something from which I could just walk away. I mean, she worked a stone’s throw away from our offices! Invariably, we would see each other at the airport bar. Certainly, I could’ve stayed away but then people would have thought I was being unsociable. Besides, living alone is no fun and Francine is an exceptionally beautiful woman.

Eventually, she and I did go out on a dinner date and after a couple of bottles of wine, we again landed up at my place. It happened again and again, and now we were thought to be a couple. Men envied me - as I said, she truly was a beautiful woman, tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, an hourglass figure, and great legs. She was intelligent and fun to be with, and best of all; she had a healthy sexual appetite.

We still both kept our own places of abode, but would alternate between each other’s homes; sometimes not even getting together for a few days. This had been going on for about a year. Yes, occasionally she had made me aware of the tick of her biological clock, but she was only twenty-five and really did not seem to have marriage foremost in mind. She had a good job with the airline and her employer paid her well. She just wanted to let me know the thought was there.

I was comfortable in the relationship.

But now that Maria had phoned, somehow things were different again; my mind dwelt on Maria, and not only because of our involvement in the briefcases!

Maria had booked a suite in the Madison Hotel, a large complex that relied for its revenue on the stopover of airline crews from the larger international airlines who rotated their crews in South Africa. Invariably more than half of the guests were airline crews. I left my SUV parked in an unobtrusive corner of the hotel parking lot and made a dash for the entrance. It was still drizzling. I took the first available lift to the fourteenth floor, and knocked on number 1414.

A few moments later, it swung open.

Maria stood there, holding the door. Her dark eyes flashed and her mouth broke into a wide grin on seeing me. She stepped forward and we hugged - not a lover’s hug, but rather a warm welcoming hug. We held each other for a few seconds.

She was dressed in a business suit with a white silk blouse, the collar tied with a bow of similar material, she looking the executive type, a far cry from the woman I had known before. She was slimmer, not as voluptuous as before - I immediately though she had to be visiting a gym regularly, she looked so damn firm and fit. Her dark hair was radiant, parted on one side, it cascading down the side of her face.

She took my hand and drew me into the room, turning to face me once she had closed the door.

“Let me look at you.” She gave me an up and down appraisal, “Well, you certainly have improved - it must be the good life. When I last saw you, you were looking a little haggard. I can remember thinking that you looked like a man who needed a holiday.” She squeezed my hand, which she was still holding. “Come; let me get you a drink.”

From the small bar in the room, she brought two whiskeys with ice and a can of soda water to share.

“Well, tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. We haven’t spoken for so long,” I said.

“Not much really. You know I‘ve got that place in Virginia. Well, I’ve been there most of the time, near my work. I’m still attached to the southern Africa section - I shouldn’t really tell you that but what I’ve got to say will make better sense if you know what I’ve been doing.” Her demeanour took on a more serious note, “Things have changed. At the moment, a cease-fire is in force, which is working to a degree. I mean, everything still balances on a knife-edge - war could break out tomorrow again. They’ve signed something called the Bicesse Accord, which will get the UNITA forces integrated into the MPLA government forces. I think that’s rather wishful; they hate each other. The population is then supposed to go to the polls.”

“I’ve been hearing about peace noises up there but didn’t know quite how serious it was. Christ! I know these guys, they don’t like each other, they’ll be fighting again soon,” I said.

She took a sip from her glass and came to sit beside me on the couch.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “but now we’ve got a window of opportunity. Most patrols have been withdrawn; the rebel forces are all congregated in camps. If there are any patrols out there, they must be merely a token force and few and far apart. Certainly, there still are troops in Jamba but that is miles from Luiana. Oh, incidentally that’s the name of the disused field where we buried the cases. I got hold of a detailed CIA map of the area - there can’t be anything better. We need to get the cases out of there within the next few weeks, before Trichardt finds out I’m in the country.”

She glanced anxiously at him over the rim of her glass.

“Trichardt’s never going to know you’re here.”

“Don’t you believe it, he’s watching. And I don’t know if anybody has been keeping an eye on me in the States.”

“All right - we’ll be careful. I’ve told Gavin you’re here but we’ll have to rope him in if we are planning something,” I said.

“Of course, but I’ll leave that to you. Have you thought about it? I mean... any plans?”

“Mmm, I’ve got one or two ideas, but it is definitely a fly-in and fly-out situation, covertly that is, if that is at all possible.”

“Sounds interesting, but enough. You can take me to dinner now,” She smiled, rising from the settee.

We eventually chose one of those homely Portuguese restaurants where invariably half the clientele were friends of the owner and everyone seemed to bring their families to dinner. It was tucked away in the southern suburbs in a small shopping centre. We were shown to a small corner table not too far from a roaring hearth fire, the atmosphere warm and cosy, this a welcome change after the sudden cold spell the country was experiencing.

From the wine list, I chose a Backsberg Cabernet Sauvignon, just the right wine for this weather, warm and smooth. We emptied the bottle before the main course was arrived. As a starter, we ate grilled calamari - sliced squid rings, which had been prepared to perfection. For the entrée we agreed to share a seafood platter, this the speciality of the house, an enormous oval plate covered in an assortment of local crustaceans, squid, mussels and fish to which was added a copious amount of a white Portuguese fish sauce and small boiled potatoes.

By now, we had consumed the second bottle and if we previously had displayed any inhibitions these had long disappeared; our conversation was unreserved and intimate. We made no effort to disguise our feelings for one another.

She placed her hand on mind. “Well, we seem to be back to where we left off when I ran away from you after that dinner in the Maharani Hotel in Durban. I often feel a pang of regret about that.”

I stared at her, the light from the lone candle on the table reflected in her eyes. She was waiting to see how I would respond to her remark, obviously expecting a reaction to the innuendo it contained.

“I’ve often dwell on that moment, wondering what would have happened had you not left.” I took her hand and enclosed it in mine.

She smiled. “So do I,” she whispered.

Maria insisted that we have liqueurs with our coffee, something I don’t normally do, but I relented. She ordered something the name of which I can’t recall. With much bravado, I didn’t sip it, but threw it back in my throat. It had to be at least fifty per cent proof: it literally took my breath away. Maria thought my reactions hilarious.

We left the restaurant just before eleven and drove slowly back to her hotel, I having had a lot more to drink than I should have. It was still raining, a faint drizzle coming down. The tyres swished on the wet road, the streetlights, neon signs, and car lights a kaleidoscope of colour as these were reflected from the wet surface. She shifted in the seat and then leaned against me, her hand in my lap, and her fingers an inch from my groin resting against my inner thigh.

I could smell her heat, and was acutely aware of her nearness. I felt myself grow hard. It was not that she was coming on to me; it just seemed the natural thing to do, as if it always should be like this. I took one hand off the wheel, placing it on the side of her head and then letting my fingers slide down her hair and neck until I tentatively touched the swell of her bosom. I heard her sigh.

We spoke no more until we arrived in the hotel’s parking lot. We walked hand-in-hand to the elevator tower, our gait quick, as if driven by some sense of urgency. Just as the elevator doors closed, another couple squeezed in and while we two just stood stoically there, the others were all over each other, their ultimate intention obvious.

Maria closed the door behind us and turned round. I took her in my arms, and we kissed passionately, grinding our lips together, her tongue probing mine, her pelvis thrust hard against me. She took my hand and placed it on her breast and I grabbed her bottom with my other hand and, drew her hard against me, and held her there. I kissed the smooth soft swell of her breasts.

“Madre Diaz,” she whispered.

We unbuttoned each other’s clothes quickly letting these drop to the floor. She stepped back from me clad only in her underwear and unclasped her bra, slowly removing it, freeing her breasts - they were magnificent, jutting out like a ledge. A long groan from deep inside my throat escaped me - I stepped forward, took a breast in my mouth, and with my tongue rolled the erect and hard nipple. She moaned in my ear.

I scooped her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down to and then quickly removed the rest of my clothing as she slipped off her thong. We lay then next to each other kissing. My hand slid down her body and disappearing between her thighs, I further aroused further by her wetness.

“Please... now!” she begged in a hoarse whisper.

It was not long before our worlds exploded in an incandescent sense of pleasure and oneness.

Chapter Nine

I left the hotel suite at two in the morning and arrived back at my bungalow about an hour later.

Of course, my relationship with Francine now suddenly loomed large. I had that distinct feeling that I was sinking fast towards an abyss from which I would be unable to extract myself. I felt guilty, ungracious and unclean - unclean not in the literal sense but rather that I had besmirched a relationship of mutual trust and love.

I really was as if I’d never been in love with Francine, certainly not that all-consuming love that is supposed to be the nearest thing to nirvana. Yes, my relationship with her was warm and comfortable; she was a wonderful companion, even-tempered and understanding. Neither had I looked upon our relationship as a convenient sexual interlude until I stumbled on something else.

As I approached my front door, I saw a small folded piece of paper jammed in a crack in the door panelling.

Was here at 11.30 - you still weren’t home. You shouldn’t work so hard! Phone me tomorrow. Love you, F

Another wave of self-reproach swept over me. How was I to deal with this new situation? I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t know whether I merely lusted after Maria or whether it was more than that. Damn it! I hardly knew the woman!

What I did know was that Francine was a wonderful woman - I would never want to hurt her, no matter what!

Frustrated, I tore the note off the door. I would have to deal with this tomorrow.

I arrived at the office half an hour late, which was unusual. Shirley greeted me with raised eyebrows and a pointed look at the wall clock. I ignored her. Gavin was already seated in his office. The moment I walked in, Gavin came through the adjoining door and then closed my office door, checking that we were alone.

“Morning,” he said with some contempt. “You’re late. Did you have a long night?”

I ignored his question, not sure whether I was supposed to read something into his remark. I was not about to let him judge me. I too looked around to make sure that we could not be overheard.

“Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Maria is only in the country for five weeks or so. She says that if we are to retrieve the cases we should do so now... that’s why she’s here. Apparently, the ceasefire between the MPLA, Cubans, and UNITA, not to forget South Africa, is working, well... sort of, but it could collapse at any time. Patrols, particularly in the south-western corner of the Cuando Cubango province near Jamba should be non-existent, or so she says, although I don’t entirely believe that - none of the bastards trusts each other. But, she says we must realize that this may be the only opportunity we’ll have for a long time. She, and that probably means the CIA, think that civil war will soon break out again. The mere fact that Savimbi is hanging onto his diamond mines shows that he is not prepared to hand over everything to the new government, although some of his soldiers are now slowly being integrated into the new Angolan armed forces,” I spoke quickly, trying to get everything across before anyone interrupted us.

Gavin stared at me for a moment.

“And how do you propose we do this? Has Maria got a plan?”

“No, she hasn’t. It’s up to you and me to come up with something. I think that we must fly in and out; there is no other way of tackling this - no hiking through the bush. That’s too damn dangerous - too many patrols and don’t forget the landmines,” I replied.

For a second my mind dwelt on Kowalski’s fate. It sent a shudder of fear through me.

“That airstrip on which you crashed the Hawker Siddeley, do you think it is usable?” he asked.

“I doubt it, but may be with a STOL aircraft - really short take-off and landing capabilities. That might just do it. It’s the anthills that are the problem -the critters build the damn things so damn fast, especially during the summer.”

I took the seat behind my desk.

“I take it we’re not going to use any of our own aircraft?” Gavin asked.

“You’re damn right; they’re not insured for that type of operation and certainly not for a flight to Angola - that’s a bloody war zone.”

Gavin stared out through the office window watching a Learjet take-off, chewing on his lip.

“Mmm, the best aircraft would be a Russian Antonov-2; there are quite a few of them operating in Angola, the Cubans brought a couple across. An Antonov in Angola would not look suspicious,” he said quietly, not quite sure how I would respond to his suggestion.

“Gav! That’s a good idea,” I replied enthusiastically. “Where can we get hold of one?”

The An-2 is an extraordinary aircraft. Some rave about the Russian Bolshoi ballet. With me it’s Russian aircraft; these are the best air-workhorses in the world. Rugged is an apt description. That’s what an Antonov-2 is; besides it can seat twelve and land at thirty-five miles an hour within six hundred feet with a 4700lb payload. It’ll take-off in less than that.

Gavin started laughing, happy to have come up with a possible solution.

“You won’t believe this! Some guy bought a few in Eastern Europe after the Soviet exodus and brought them back to Johannesburg Rand Airport. I hear he is offering one or two for sale - hasn’t had any takers yet - you know the South African attitude towards anything made in the USSR. The price isn’t bad either, considering that each is being offered with a brand new spare radial engine still in the damn packing case. We can have Mike go through and check it out - get a COA[1] for it.”

“Grand idea. Christ! An An2 in Johannesburg,” I said. I marvelled at the news. “The damn plane’s a brilliant choice for this job - a biplane with a thousand horsepower engine and a good load capability... though maybe a bit slow, heh? Did you know that they say that if the wind blows hard enough, you can fly it backwards - a bloody piece of Russian ingenuity, I tell you,” I added with some avidness.

“All right, I’m going to make some enquiries. Hey, people are going to think we’re nuts. We’re have to just say we buying it for fun, not work - something for ourselves to use on fishing and hunting trips and generally just messing around. Okay? Our own sports plane.”

“Sure, sounds good. If you think the price is right, take an option.”

Well, we bought the plane and at a fair price: Gavin had haggled the price down. He flew it to Lanseria from Rand Airport. I had to laugh when I first saw it: it was painted a drab dark green and sported an enormous Soviet red star on both sides of the rudder and CCCP in large letters on its fuselage. This alone drew a few onlookers. And all the instructions and instrument labels were in Russian!

Mike Holloway subjected the plane to a meticulous inspection, going through it slowly, harrumphing, and snorting on the occasions that he saw the odd thing or two.

Well, Mike,” I asked. “What do you think?”

He rolled his eyes. “God, this thing comes out of Noah’s Ark. Huge rubber bands activate the bloody slots! Can you believe it....that Russian engine upfront is a downright copy of an American Pratt & Whitney from World War Two!”

I interrupted him. “How long to get a COA[2], if your whole crew works on it?”

He rubbed his chin with his fingers. “Two weeks... what’s the rush?”

“Never mind, that’s all the time you’ve got - remember!”

He gave me a dirty look and walked away. He wasn’t happy; he considered himself part of the family.

Gavin and I thought it best that we meet with Maria in her hotel, far away from prying eyes.

Maria opened the door to us. I introduced them. I was immediately aware of Gavin’s furtive glances as he appraised Maria, no doubt wondering what I saw in this woman. I had told him little about her. She was dressed in jeans with a white top, the décolletage quite revealing. I thought this had to be a Cuban trait, some breast must always show. From the surreptitious glances he gave her, it seemed Gavin agreed.

Maria produced the CIA map she had previously mentioned and I must say it impressed me. It was to a scale of 1:50,000 and showed everything; elevations, tracks, roads and, of course, the rivers, and airfields. In the right hand top corner, it was stamped “SECRET”.

“Impressive,” Gavin said. Maria merely smiled.

I pointed out the airfield at Luina and then the approximate position where the briefcases were buried.

“That field’s only five thousand feet long and look, the map indicates that it is not usable - trees and bush growing on it.” I said.

“Look across the river on the Zambian side. There’s a road through the bush running parallel to the river. I’m suggesting we fly to Luina; make a slow, careful inspection of the runway from the air and if we can’t land, we land the plane on the other side, the Zambian side. Here, what’s the place’s name...Simjembela. We put it down on the road. The road straight and flat, and free of trees along the edges... a piece of cake for the An2.”

Gavin and Maria looked at me in disbelief.

“How would we cross the river?” Maria asked.

I smiled. “We don’t - we pay, or bribe, whatever, the locals on the Zambian side to take their dugouts across with a few men. Maybe one of us goes with, we clear the runway - all they need is pangas - the bush, and trees are young and can’t be big. We just have to flatten the anthills. We need no more than twelve to fifteen hundred feet in which to land and get airborne again. We probably could do the job in a day.”

“What about the briefcases?” Gavin asked.

“We don’t go near them. We prepare everything - get the whole lot ready for extraction. Then we look and listen and make sure all is safe and that we’ve raised no suspicions. If everything is okay, we move in like Flint - in and out like a flash.”

I was sure the grin on my face must have told them that I thought it a brilliant plan.

“What about the police on the Zambian side?” Gavin asked.

“The nearest station is over fifty miles away. They probably only patrol there once a month. If they do suddenly pitch up, we fake an engine problem. In fact, I’m thinking we should file a flight plan for a trip to Zambia to some nearby lodge in Zambia, then there’s nothing wrong if we put the plane down on Zambian soil. Of course, all our papers must be in order. What do you think?”

They both nodded their heads in dubious agreement.

“Just remember, that river is full of bloody crocs and hippos,” Gavin added. “Christ! In and out like Flint... where the hell does that expression come from?”

I met with Francine the following evening. As promised, I had phoned and we’d decided on a quiet dinner at my place. Of course, I had made a point of never mentioning the briefcases, but that was the only piece of information about my past that she was not party to. She knew the rest.

My vague reply as to what I’d been doing the night she left the note on my door did not go unnoticed; my lack of candour concerned her, although she never pressed me.

The evening was warm. We decided to eat on the porch, an ultra-violet light hanging from the ceiling keeping the insects at bay, zit-zitting regularly as it fried the insects that were drawn to it. This was tucked away in a corner; you didn’t want the dead insects anywhere near the table. Francine had insisted on something light so we settled for two tuna steaks grilled over an open fire with an Italian salad. We shared a crisp dry white wine.

We tried to get into a movie on the pay-channel but eventually retired to the bedroom, Francine rolling into my arms so we would make love; this was the usual scenario if we had not been together for a few days.

I went through the motions but whether it was because Maria was on my mind or a guilty conscience was inhibiting me, the magic just seemed to elude us.

Afterwards she lay snuggled up to me, her head partially resting on my chest.

“What’s with you tonight?” she quietly asked. “Really mediocre foreplay, which normally you excel at, then bim-bam and a lousy finish..., is there a problem?”

God, I thought, was it that obvious?

“I’m just feeling a little off.” I said.

Worse still, she believed me and snuggled even closer, like a mother would do to comfort her baby.

I felt awful.

Mike and his boys had done a magnificent job. On the fourteenth day, Mike strode into my office and slid the An2’s new South African logbooks over my desk, opened to display the newly issued COA.

I stepped out of the offices and walked over to the hangar with him to inspect the aircraft.

Any previous reference to Russia had been removed. The An2’s tailplane now proudly displayed our company logo and its new South African registration was painted in white on the fuselage and wings. The drab green colour had been retained. That it was a Russian aircraft did not bother me; most of the indigenous population along the Cuano River really did not know one type of aircraft from another. At best, all they would know was that it was South African registered.

“Take the company logo off,” I said.

“What the hell for?” Mike blurted unable to hide his astonishment.

“It’s private - it belongs to Gavin and me.”

He just shook his head in frustration.

Gavin flew the aircraft to Alldays. I insisted that to be properly prepared, we had to load an inflatable Zodiac raft with a thirty horsepower outboard engine as well as two quadcycles. I thought it was imperative that we have mobility on the ground - the quads were ideal. The cargo area in the An2 can easily accommodate these.

Alldays is a town in South Africa close to the Botswana border, which serves a large community of cattle ranchers and game farms. The area also has a large police presence with a few army units, because of the occasional terrorist incursions into the country to lay landmines. The airfield was subject to twenty-four hour security, which insured that the aircraft and its contents were safe. I collected Gavin in Alldays in the Piper Seneca and brought him back to Lanseria, leaving the An-2 on Allday’s airfield.

Chapter Ten

After collecting Maria at the hotel, we arrived at Lanseria Airport at three in the morning. As we approached the gates that led to the apron, Maria hid behind the seats of my SUV. I didn’t want anybody to know that a woman accompanied us. The security merely waved us through without even checking.

It was Friday, the start of a three day long weekend in South Africa. That had given us the opportunity to tell Shirley and the others, including Francine, that Gavin and I were taking a well-earned break and were going tiger fishing at on the giant Kariba Dam.

We had also told the office that we had hired out the An2 to a group of Americans who were on safari in Botswana and Zambia. We were unsure of the duration but they would sort this out on their return.

Nobody seemed at all suspicious.

Hidden from any prying eyes behind the hangar, we loaded our kit into the Cessna Caravan. We didn’t take much, just a holdall each. Except Maria: she had quite a large and heavy aluminium case and when Gavin asked as to its contents, she told him to mind his own business, this in a friendly manner.

The flight to Alldays was uneventful. We landed just as the first light of dawn began to spread over the flat bush landscape below.

Within an hour of landing the Cessna, I taxied the An2 to the end of the runway ready for take-off. Gavin had insisted that I pilot, as I had a lot more experience on this type of STOL aircraft, whereas most of his experience was confined to jets. The aircraft was a tail-dragger, that is, it had no nose-wheel and taxied with its nose stuck up in the air. Modern light aircraft have narrow cockpits, well, comparatively speaking, the An2 has a cockpit akin to a cabin cruiser’s, but utilitarian in design - there was nothing aesthetic about it. Everything had a function. All the Russian instructions and instrument labels were now blocked over with black-and-white dyna-tape displaying the equivalent English name for the instrument, the work of Mike, and his men. The quads and the deflated raft were lashed to the cabin floor. Maria took a seat directly behind Gavin.

The huge Shetsov-ASL62 1000hp nine cylinder radial engine spluttered and coughed, it still cold. I eased the throttle slightly forward increasing the revs to warm it up.

Finally, we were ready. The airfield had no tower, it was a matter of having a good look to ensure that the circuit was clear and if satisfied, you took off.

I slowly eased the throttle forward to its stop, and the An2 gathered speed. I pushed the yoke forward and the tail rose from the ground. She lifted into the air after a few hundred feet. There certainly was nothing wrong with the An2’s short field capabilities!

We had filed no flight plan and as far as the authorities were concerned, the aircraft was still on the ground in Alldays. The last record they had was when the aircraft had landed there a few days ago.

I kept the aircraft low, not wanting to be picked up by the South African Air Force radar systems, which dotted the northern approaches to the country. Our track would take us just west of Palapye in Botswana, over the Caprivi Zipfel in Namibia and into Zambia. During the last leg of the flight, we’d have the Angolan border below our left wing. The total distance was about three hundred miles, about two and a half hours in the air.

Gavin kept on at Maria, wanting to know the contents of the aluminium case. Finally, with a show of irritation she unclipped it from where it was lashed down and dragged it to her seat. With it in front of her feet, she opened it. Gavin turned his head and glanced down, then jerked his head back in disbelief. Three Heckler and Koch 9mm machine pistols nestled in foam rubber, with three full clips of ammunition for each. It also contained three hand grenades and a Heckler and Koch 9mm automatic.

“Holy shit! Are you bloody mad? We aren’t going to war! Christ! If anybody catches us with this lot, we’re as good as dead!” he blurted, his eyes wide.

Maria stared at him for a few seconds.

“Listen, Gavin,” she said quietly. “If we run into a patrol in Angola, be sure they’ll shoot first... okay?”

Gavin was decidedly unhappy, shaking his head, but I agreed and said so.

We approached Luiana from the Zambian side crossing the Cuano River, which was the border, where the river was reasonably wide, although the waters had not penetrated the flood plain due to the lack of rain. I held the aircraft just a few hundred feet above the ground. We flew over the village at Luiana. As expected, it was clearly deserted and had been so for a long time.

I then swung the aircraft towards the airfield lowering the airspeed. The aircraft hung on its propeller as we flew as slow as possible, traversing the gravel strip at about a hundred feet to make a closer inspection. It was overgrown, with small bushes and trees and the occasional small anthill that had erupted from the gravel. We spotted the burnt-out wreck of the Hawker Siddeley and even saw the hulk of the destroyed Russian personnel carrier.

“Can’t land here, even with this aircraft,” Gavin said shaking his head. I agreed.

We swung back towards Zambia across the river.

Simjembela was a small settlement on the Zambian side directly opposite Luiana. A straight gravel road was discernible this in a north-south direction parallel to the river flood plain. There were no other roads, only tracks.

“I’m going to put it down on the road,” I said, checking on the smoke that emanated from the village. Making sure that I was landing into the wind, I reduced power and bled off the airspeed. Automatically as the speed reduced, the wing’s leading edge slats extended, the aircraft slowing down further. We touched the ground at no more than thirty miles an hour and the plane quickly rolled to a stop. I taxied the An2 off the road onto an open patch where I parked and shut everything down, the magneto’s tick-ticking as the prop spun to a stop.

Immediately, a crowd of people assembled, mostly children who stared at the plane in awe. Then the people parted and an elderly black man with white hair and similarly white small beard approached.

He was obviously a figure of importance in the community, as the crowd displayed a degree of deference towards him.

“Good afternoon, lady, and gentlemen,” he said in perfect upper class colonial English. “You appear to be in need of assistance.”

Never expecting to be greeted in this manner this far from civilization, I was quite taken aback. We were in the sticks, and the nearest police or government office was at least fifty miles away. We were surrounded by virgin bushveld. We saw no telephone lines, no hospital, and nothing that even resembled a shop.

At first, I did not know how to respond, but I eventually found my tongue, deciding that the straight approach was probably the best approach.

“As to the assistance you referred to, we actually wanted to land our aircraft on the airfield on the other side of the river,” I said gravely.

The man stared at me for a moment.

“That’s too dangerous, that’s Angola.”

“I know”

“Why do you wish to go there?”

“About a year ago our aircraft crashed there,” I pointed to the airfield across the river. “There are a few things we need to collect from the crash, but to do so I must land this plane on the airfield. It is now overgrown. If your people are prepared to help us clear the strip we will pay handsomely.”

The old man laughed disparagingly. “They shoot people there.”

“I know,” I replied. “That’s why we are prepared to pay well.”

Of course, once we landed the plane on the opposite side, we had no intention of going anywhere near the crashed plane, but then they would not be around to see that as they would have already returned to the Zambian side.

The old man stepped away to confer with some of the other men.

“Why don’t we just fetch the cases with the raft?” Gavin whispered.

At times, I thought that Gavin could be an insufferable prick. This was one of them.

“Because with a good few million dollars at stake, we don’t take fuckin’ chances! We don’t take those cases into a boat with a score of people around,” I hissed.

The old man returned to confront us. “You pay fifty dollars a man and we’ll do it. You also give me one hundred dollars.”

Believe me when I tell you that in this part of Africa fifty dollars is a bloody fortune, but I wasn’t going to argue. I wanted it done, and I wanted it done today.

I agreed.

We hauled the collapsed Zodiac and the outboard out of the aircraft. Ready hands took these from us and we moved in the direction of the river. A small crowd of curious locals followed.

Maria purposely left her steel case locked in the aircraft; we would enter Angola unarmed this time.

The Cuano River has its source in the Bie Plateau, a massive domed highland a few hundred miles in width that dominates central Angola. This is an area of abundant tropical rain, and the source of a number of several other large rivers not least of which is the mighty Zambesi. During the course of the summer these rivers often flood, changing from a hundred yard wide rivers into massive expanses of water over a mile or wider flowing across the flat bush plains south of the highlands.

As we approached the river, we disturbed a few crocodiles basking in the sun. With a flick of their huge tails, they scrabbled, slid, and disappeared into the muddy water. We got to the water’s edge after trekking through the reeds and grass of the floodplain, the soft mud sucking at our boots.

The river was in near-flood although it had not yet broken its banks. The current was strong; the surface broken by swirls and eddies. It was only alongside the banks that the pools were relatively placid; a few of these were occupied by hippos that were grunting and snorting as they usually do.

The men who proposed to help did not intend to share the raft with us. They all wore loincloths, their torsos and legs bare, each brandishing a wicked looking panga. From the reeds, they dragged their own dugout canoes and with little ceremony launched these into the river, scrambled aboard and then punted vigorously across using long wooden poles, careful to avoid the hippos.

It took us a little longer, having to first bolt the outboard to the stern. Then a tribesman held the raft against the bank as we climbed aboard. The engine took with the first pull of the starter rope, blue smoke bubbling from the exhaust. The hippos all surfaced and looked at us, just their eyes and ears visible.

The man released the raft, the current slowly drawing it into the river. Once all were properly seated, I twisted the throttle sending the boat surging across the water to the opposite bank passing the dugouts on the way. I slowed down so that our bow-wave did not swamp them but it still it left them rolling precariously in the disturbed water.

The raft slid aground on a bar of sand, we all jumped out and grabbed the raft by the rope handholds along its gunwales and dragged it onto higher ground.

“May be we should hide the raft,” I said.

We pulled it towards some reeds, which we cut down with the machetes we had brought with and then spread these over the boat, doing a fair job of hiding it. At least, from the air it would not be easy to see.

The dugouts were also ashore now and we all trooped off in single file towards the airfield, which was only a few hundred yards away. From the air, the dugouts would not appear suspicious.

Gavin looked around nervously. We were the only people on this side of the river and it was unlikely that we would see others. This area was deserted, a legacy of the war.

“We should have brought Maria’s guns,” he said.

“Yes? And get our fuckin’ arses shot off? Look, the moment any patrol sees us and notices that we are armed, they’ll shoot first and leave questions for later. Let’s not go that way. What’s with you anyway? First you object to the guns and now you sorry we didn’t bring them!” I said irritably.

“I don’t know about that. Anyway, I’ve changed my mind; the guns would have been a good idea. Why don’t we just dig the briefcases out of the ground and skedaddle it back to Zambia, Christ, we could do it an hour.”

Shit! The man just wasn’t thinking.

“What about all these onlookers? Do you think they won’t wonder what the hell we’ve dug up? What do you think will stop them from robbing us? I really don’t think we should reveal any weapons and start shooting people on Zambian soil. Keep it low key - remember, our plane is flashing a South African registration number!” I said, hoping that I was getting through to him. It seemed I was, as he said no more.

We soon climbed the slight incline from the flood plain that took us into the narrow gallery forest along the riverbanks.

I saw the burnt-out personnel carrier, partially overgrown by bush, but purposely ignored it. We came to a halt at the beginning of the runway. From the ground, looking over its flat surface, the airstrip was hardly recognizable. Our assumptions were correct; the runway was overgrown with long grass and stunted bush and occasional anthill. The small trees, which had taken hold, were already six to eight feet high.

I indicated that the tribesmen should start clearing the runway from the southeast end, this being nearest to the river. I then paced the airstrip from that end and when I thought the distance eighteen hundred feet, I stopped. Using my machete, I cut down a small tree, which I lay on the ground to show to where the strip should be cleared up to. This would give me more than sufficient room in which to get the aircraft airborne.

The headman had chosen strong men to help us. Soon, we all were busy clearing the strip; several were chopping down the trees and bush while others slashed the grass down to no more than ankle-high. The remaining two cleared the loose debris from the runway to its side.

Maria chose to help clear the cut bush and trees from the runway. Fortunately, we had brought strong leather gloves to protect us from the thorn-infested branches.

Working in the sun, we soon were all soaked in sweat, continuously slaking our thirst from the water bottles we had the foresight to include in our itinerary. It wasn’t long before we had removed all our clothing except for essentials - a loose shirt and trousers. Maria was down to a thin blouse, the tails of which now hung out of her rather tight fitting chino pants.

Maria had gathered a few bushes by their stems and was dragging these towards the edge of the airstrip. Gavin dropped the hand holding his machete to his side and stared at her butt.

“Do you think she’ll strip off her bra?” he jokingly asked, standing next to me.

“Careful, my friend,” I said, the tone of my voice surely telling him that he was now on dangerous ground.

He turned to look at me.

“So... I’m right. There is something going on between the two of you. Christ man! What about Francine hey?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Just leave it, Gavin. That’s my problem.”

He mumbled under his breath, clearly upset, and resumed hacking at the bush and grass, venting his anger, swinging wildly.

“Don’t tire yourself,” I said placatingly. He ignored me, moving away.

Damn it, I thought, this was just what I needed to complicate matters - Gavin delving into my private life!

We took a break every hour or so to rest, moving into the shade, careful where we put our feet. We had just returned from a break under the trees and were moving towards the strip, when I heard a humming sound in the distance. I immediately recognized it; it was an aircraft, definitely a twin - pilots recognize these things. The sound rapidly grew in volume - it was at a low altitude. It sounded like a DC3.

Suddenly it was upon us, over-flying the airfield at two to three hundred feet, the roar of the radial engines deafening. It passed overhead and then swung out in a gradual turn, which took it over the river and over the village at Simjembela. It then came back at us and as it roared overhead, it rocked its wings.

Suddenly I felt an acute sense of dread. A quick glance at Gavin told me he felt the same. I knew - this had to be one of Trichardt’s aircraft. I was stupefied. This was the last thing I expected. If cargo aircraft without any military markings were seen in this vicinity then they belonged to Trichardt. Sure, there were others supplying Savimbi’s need for food, weapons, and equipment but these did not operate in south Angola.

“God, the man’s timing couldn’t be better. Do you think they saw us?” Gavin demanded, staring frantically after the departing aircraft.

“Of course they bloody saw us, as well as our South African registered AN2 on the other side. Be sure, they couldn’t have missed that! The question is what will they say or do? I mean, it could look quite innocuous.” I ventured, hoping my voice sounded calm and did not reveal my inner feelings. Innocuous? Whom did I think I was kidding!

Maria approached us at a trot, breathing heavily.

“Was that Trichardt’s plane?” she asked a slight expression of alarm on her face.

What could I say? I had to confirm it.

“Who else?” I replied sarcastically.

I saw her pale, even with the perspiration dripping off her face. I thought I’d better qualify my statement.

“Hang on. That only means it belongs to him, but it’s extremely unlikely that he is aboard. This is probably incidental. Don’t forget, this airfield is nearly on the direct track from Jamba to Johannesburg and if the plane were from Rivungo, it would have to fly directly over us. It’s highly improbable that this will lead to anything.”

God, did I really believe this?

They both stared at me, clearly not happy with my reply.

‘Look, let’s discuss this to-night... okay? Don’t jump to conclusions. Any way, we won’t be able to finish this job today. Yes, we’ll clear the field but by the time we get back it will be dark. We’ll fly in here at first light to-morrow,” I said hoping that I didn’t sound concerned.

It had struck me that the locals had not been concerned, so may be an over-fly like this was a regular occurrence. Nothing more was said and we all returned to work.

We removed the last of the small trees and flattened the final large anthill at about five that afternoon, and immediately returned to the river. During the course of the day, the level of the river had risen appreciably, the water now up to where we had hidden the raft and dugouts. So also, had the mood of the water changed; the current was stronger and I realized that the dugouts might experience problems. The agitated discussion amongst the local worker confirmed this.

We retrieved a lifeline rope from a pocket on the raft and with the approval of the locals tied the dugouts in line, one behind the other to the zodiac, the idea being to tow the dugouts across. We all took our places in the boats. I started the motor and then gingerly manoeuvred the string of craft into the stream, the nose of the raft pointing slightly upstream to compensate for the rather strong current.

Well, the moment we got into the current proper, it wiped the dugouts in a straight line dead astern into the current, and all I could do was slowly crab the line across the river trying to match the speed of the raft with the current. We were actually stationary relative to the shore. I realized that if the motor cut out, we would be swept miles downriver.

It was nearly dark by the time we got across. The headman was waiting for us. I paid him and his men, and they disappeared into the growing darkness. We deflated the raft and packed it back into the aircraft with the motor.

We all were in need of a wash. Only Maria had the forethought to include soap amongst her personal things. It was too dangerous to bathe in the river, so Gavin borrowed a bucket, this actually an empty five gallon kerosene drum, from a nearby cluster of huts. Keeping a sharp lookout for crocodiles on the banks of the river, we stripped to our underwear. We then scooped water from the river and poured this over each other; thereafter we vigorously soaped ourselves, following this with a good rinse of further water.

Common decency dictated that Maria see to her ablutions alone. However, I was not prepared to let Maria collect water from the river - a crocodile, when attacking, exits the water at an incredible speed, often catching its prey in this manner, dragging it under to drown. So we stayed with Maria and saw to dousing her with water, she clad only in bra and panties. Of course, Gavin could just had to give me a wicked wink when we saw how small the panties were.

We all felt more upbeat after our wash and a change of clothing. Gavin was the scrounger, returning the metal container to the villagers but arriving back at the plane with a large tin of hot water to which coffee, this more chicory than coffee, and sugar had been added. We all drank from our mess cups - it was delectable.

With a laugh, Gavin commented that the home brew cost considerably more than three coffees at the Mugg & Bean.

There was not much else to do so I took a torch and made a very careful check of the aircraft. We then retired. We thought it too dangerous to sleep outside the aircraft - crocs, hippos and other wild animals roamed the area at night. There was only one other option - to sleep on the cargo mats in the aircraft.

The only way to sleep on the floor and have sufficient room between us was to lie crosswise across the fuselage. Maria lay down nearest to the cockpit and then after a discreet distance both Gavin and I took our places, with myself nearest to Maria.

“Don’t try anything,” Gavin whispered to me.

“Fuck you,” I hissed.

He just laughed. I wondered whether Maria had heard.

Chapter Eleven

The An2 is an incredible aircraft. I had hardly built up speed on the gravel road when the main wheels bounced once or twice and we were airborne. The sun had yet to show itself, although the bush was already aglow with diffused light.

Climbing to no more than a few hundred feet, I banked to cross the river and flew towards Luiana airfield. Below us, we could see that during the night the river had risen significantly, overflowing its banks, and partially flooding the flood plain. I realized that any use of a boat at this stage would be very difficult, if not impossible. We had completed clearing the gravel strip just in time!

There was no wind, so I landed the plane from northwest to southeast, this towards the personnel carrier, then swinging it round to face the length of the runway. This put the burnout personnel carrier no more than a hundred and fifty yards away and the An2 ready for a quick take-off. Getaway was probably more appropriate considering how I felt - that DC3 still bothered me.

We walked to the end of the runway and then in single file, me leading the way, we carefully approached the spot where the briefcases were buried. Gavin carried a small trenching spade similar to those used by the troops in the army. We all kept a sharp lookout for mines. This didn’t necessarily mean we would see one if there was one on our track, so we all had our hearts in our mouths.

We stopped at the spot where the cases were buried, the exact position imprinted on my mind. I indicated to Gavin and he immediately started to dig. Very soon, we heard the sound of metal on metal. Maria stood next to me as Gavin removed the soil from around the briefcases. She surreptitiously took my hand, clearly excited.

Gavin lifted the cases out of the hole placing them on the ground. Slightly out of breath and unable to contain his excitement, his eyes flashed a wide grin. He looked around the bushveld nervously.

“Okay, let’s get the fuckin’ hell out of here before somebody comes!” he blurted somewhat out of character, oblivious of Maria presence and his language.

He and I each grabbed a briefcase and retraced our steps to the aircraft. Immediately everything was aboard, I threw myself into the left-hand seat and started the engine. I didn’t even check whether everything was secured and only carried out the most rudimentary pre-flight check. I then rammed the throttle open, sending the plane hurtling down the cleared airstrip, finally pulling it brutally into the air. The moment I had sufficient ground clearance, I swung the plane towards Zambian territory and only expelled my breath when the river passed below us. Of course, all of this was unnecessary - if someone wanted to take a shot at us out here in the wilderness, they wouldn’t be giving a damn whether we were over Angolan or Zambian territory.

But once over Zambia we all looked at each other and then erupted into shouts of jubilation.

“Hey guys,” I said cautiously, “we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Don’t worry; this was the worst, the rest we can handle,” Gavin replied excitedly. I wasn’t quite so sure. The aircraft that had over flown us still worried me. I detected a similar feeling of apprehension from Maria.

“Let’s open the cases,” Maria said impatiently, clearly keen to verify their contents.

We agreed.

The cases were locked requiring that we force them, open. I had to crane my neck round to see what was going on as Gavin gingerly lifted the lid. They must have been almost airtight; the contents were still pristine. The first case was stacked to the top with bundle upon bundle of US dollar banknotes in various large denominations.

“Holy shit!” Gavin whispered taking out a bundle of one hundred dollar and thousand dollar notes.

“Put it back and close it,” Maria said jokingly.

Gavin complied. “I don’t see why, nobody else’s around, but I’ll do it.” He probably hadn’t forgotten that she had allowed him into the scheme. I said nothing.

He then opened the other case. This also contained bank notes but also a few steel boxes, similar to a petty cash box and about the same size. These were not locked but merely clipped shut. He opened a box: it contained a number of small black cloth pouches. I didn’t have to guess what these contained.

Gavin opened the drawstring of one and poured part of the contents into the palm of Maria’s outstretched hand. I looked at the opaque stones, which looked likes pieces of glass roughened up by the sea on the beach. All were rough diamonds, none of them very small.

“My God!” she whispered. Her body seemed to quiver with excitement as she inspected them. “We’re fuckin’ millionaires!”

Gavin and I laughed uproariously again.

Now that we had damaged the briefcases, we emptied two of our holdalls and transferred everything from the cases into these. The aircraft still winged its way across the arid Botswana semi-desert so Gavin opened the cabin door and cast the empty briefcases out.

“Better not be found with any incriminating evidence.”

“What do you think we should do with these?” I pointed to the two holdalls. “Don’t forget the over-flight of the DC3 - it could mean nothing or it could mean everything. But we’ll soon find out.”

“Look,” Maria said. “Nobody knows of our stopover at Alldays. When we get there, we take these to the bank and put them in a safe deposit box.”

I laughed. “Christ, I don’t think the bank in Alldays has a safe-deposit box big enough to accommodate these!”

“That’s their problem.”

“Said like an American,” I retorted. She ignored me. “Okay, let’s give it a try. Maria, when we get to Alldays, we’ll arrange a taxi for you to get you to the bank - you look the most decent of us all. You pay whatever fee upfront, but you produce both Gavin and my identification documents and you arrange that any one of us three can withdraw wholly or partially the contents of the box. Okay? The IDs contain our signatures, so they must photocopy these.”

They both agreed.

“Something else has just struck me,” I said. “I think that Maria shouldn’t return to the airfield at Alldays but make her own way back to Johannesburg, this straight from the bank. This will allow the two of us to return to Lanseria alone in the Cessna Caravan, with hopefully, nobody the wiser.”

“How is she going to make her way back to Johannesburg from Alldays, I mean, there’s nothing there,” Gavin complained loudly.

“Maria, with money not being an object...” Gavin had to smile at my remark, “...do you think you could make a plan?”

“Of course I can. For what we’ve now got, I’d sell my body for a lift,” she joked.

“Okay, that’s what we are going to do,” I said with finality. For a while now I had donned the role of authority and surprisingly had met with no opposition. Anyway, I expected a member of the CIA to be a person of unique qualities: finding a way to get to Johannesburg should not present Maria with a problem.

We spent most of the day at Alldays, the idea being to arrive at Lanseria after dark.

We flew back in the Caravan leaving the An2 on the airfield at Alldays, it ostensibly still out on hire.

Chapter Twelve

I phoned Francine when I got home. She was surprised to hear that we were already back, as she was only expecting to see me on the Tuesday morning. She wanted to come round immediately, but I was exhausted and told her so.

“I’m going to sleep late tomorrow but why don’t you come round at about eleven thirty? I’ll prepare us a light lunch which we can have on the terrace and discuss what we propose to do with ourselves for the rest of the day,” I said, still hounded by my guilt and wanting to make amends!

I also realized that it really was an exercise in futility; my mind still dwelt on Maria. I could not forget lying next to her in the aircraft, aware of her nearness, my mind, and body overcome by a feeling of exhilarating sexual energy and desire.

I got up around ten and drove down to the small local supermarket, which surprisingly, sold excellent meat. I selected two nice rib-eye steaks and then chose some fresh vegetables for the salad. The supermarket also sold wines and I bought from there as well.

Back at the bungalow, I got the barbeque going and prepared the steaks. I was busy with the fire when Francine arrived, dressed in three-quarter white cotton pants and a white top with cut-out sleeves. She showed a bit of bare midriff.

She leaned over and gave me a hello-peck on the lips, and then threw the Sunday papers down on the wrought-iron table.

“Well,” she said, “You seem well-rested. What went wrong with the planned break?”

I gave her our rehearsed story, which she accepted without a problem - it made sense anyway. Collecting all the necessary cutlery and tableware, she proceeded to lay the table on the porch, adding the salad, which I had already prepared. She got me to open the wine bottle and then poured us each a glass.

I did the steaks, nearly burning them on the outside but keeping them succulent and pink on the inside. She looked at the steaks and raised her eyebrows.

“You said a light meal,” she giggled. “Well, there’s nothing small about those.”

“I’m hungry.”

We sat down to lunch, saying little, just enjoying the meal, the warm sun, and the tranquillity around us.

We finished the bottle of wine plus another half. Both somewhat mellow, Francine decided an afternoon nap would round things off rather well. I grinned as we retired to my bedroom. Fortunately, I had made the bed.

You probably know that premonition you get when you’re absolutely sure that something is about to happen. Your whole body begins to tingle and there is an air of awareness in the atmosphere, it only waiting for something to trigger it. I drew the curtain just leaving a small gap, some light still streaming into the room. We both flopped down on my bed, we only having removed our shoes. Without a word, we turned to each other and kissed passionately.

My hand slid down her pants into her groin, aware of the warmth therein.

Afterwards, she lay naked on her back, her legs parted, her eyes closed, and a faint sheen of perspiration on her body, her breath still quick.

“I’m glad to see that you’re back to your normal self,” she murmured. When it comes to love and sex, women don’t have short memories.

I raised myself up on an elbow and stared down at her body.

“That was a couple of days ago, this is today. What can I say - I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, my love. You’ve made amends, you’re forgiven.”

My love? Had our relationship progressed to this stage already?

Chapter Thirteen

On Tuesday morning, I got to the office early but it seemed that so had everyone else. Both Shirley and Gavin were behind their desks. Gavin immediately beckoned me into his office, asking that I close the door behind me.

“Shirley just told me that a Mrs Mary Donkin phoned that everything had gone fine with the aircraft she hired,” he said, “Mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s Maria just saying she’s back.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Of course, Shirley wants to know how we once again, if you don’t mind, hired out an aircraft without paper work. I told her it was your doing.”

“Thanks, that’s kind of you, I’ll look after it,” I replied sarcastically.

“Better you than me - she’s in a shit mood.”

I was sure Maria would not phone again and would leave the contacting of one another to me. I was still ill at ease, sure that we had not heard the last of the fly-over. I turned to Gavin.

“For God’s sake, whatever happens, don’t ever reveal that you know anything about those briefcases. They never involved you, and Trichardt knows that. If anything goes wrong, I’m going need at least one ally. Have you got that?” I said.

He looked at me, alarm on his face.

“Got it,” he whispered.

I walked into the main office and greeted Shirley. Gavin was right; something irked her. I was about to tell her that Mary Donkin was an old friend and then thought better of it. Somehow, she would put Maria Garcia and Mary Donkin together - I just knew it. I got another idea.

“Sorry Shirley, I was in such a bind last week. Please make out an invoice for the hire of the Caravan with pilot for four and half hours to Mary Donkin. I’ll see to the collection of the money. She said she’d pay me cash on receipt of the invoice. It’ll probably be in US Dollars.”

Little did Shirley know that I would pay this out of my pocket, so as not to arouse any suspicions. A small price to pay to safeguard millions, but the less she knew, the better.

I was busy in the office trying to catch up on my paperwork when around ten Shirley rang through.

“Mr. Trichardt is here to see you - he’s with another gentleman,” she said chirpily.

The news hit me like a thunderclap - this could not be a coincidence. I realized that I was going to need a minute or two to collect myself.

“Ask them to take a seat. Tell them I won’t be a moment.”

I was sure I had gone pale. I stepped into the washroom that Gavin and I shared and stared at myself in the mirror, trying to see whether my face would give anything away. It certainly was paler than normal. I washed my face and then vigorously towelled it hoping to get some colour back into it.

In the reception area, I saw both Trichardt and a man named Rockell sitting around a coffee table. I cringed: Rockell was just what I didn’t need. A truly despicable man, a pilot-for-hire whom I had known ever since my Air Force days. He was one of the many who had not made the grade, and had never completed his Air Force pilot training. However, he still had pursued a flying career, financed by a wealthy father. First a private pilot’s licence, and then he’d done a commercial licence, slowly gathering experience as a co-pilot and pilot. I thought him a swollen-headed, supercilious arsehole. Trichardt hired him from time to time but had once indicated to me that he did this against his better judgement.

Although in fairness, I had to admit the man wasn’t a bad pilot.

“Please come in,” I smiled. I wanted to ask what brought them here, but then thought better of it, frightened that Trichardt would respond with some sarcastic reply. He just gave me a rather overlong stare and then rose from the reception chair to pass me into the office.

We sat down. I felt I had to say something.

“This is a surprise.”

“That it is..., that it is,” he responded. He then proceeded to introduce Rockell. I cut him short and said I knew the man.

“Look Peter, let me get to the point. Rockell here was returning from Rivungo with one of my DC3’s and over flew Luiana. As you know, the old airfield is just about on the same track that takes you to Muan. He saw a number of people busy clearing the runway.”

I interrupted. “Some coffee?” I asked. Trichardt dismissed the offer with a flick of his wrist.

“He turned round to over fly the field again, swinging out over Zambia on the other side of the river, the boundary with Zambia, he saw a South African registered aircraft parked next to the road at Simjembela. Do you know the place?”

I said I did.

“He then passed over the airfield again and took two photographs.”

He removed these from his pocket and slid these over the desk to me. I looked at them carefully. An inner wave of relief swept over me. The photographs were not very good. Yes, the persons on the runway were clearly visible, but nobody would ever be able to identify who they were or whether they were male or female, locals or white.

Be brave, I thought.

“So, what’s that got to do with me?” I nonchalantly enquired.

He tensed immediately, and I thought that maybe I should have worded that differently.

“I had my people check that registration,” Trichardt said, and then quietly added, “That’s your aircraft. You recently purchased a Russian An2.”

‘I had my people’, I thought. Christ, those people were probably from BOSS, the South African Bureau of State Security. The man was well connected. BOSS were a bunch of thugs without any respect for the law; torturers and murderers who regularly flaunted human rights in their quest to keep the country white- dominated. You didn’t want to cross them!

“I’m rather surprised to hear that,” I responded, hopefully displaying a straight face. “We hired that aircraft out a few weeks ago to a crowd from the States with their own pilot. I understood that they were exploring the Muan area in Botswana. They said something about a movie to be filmed in the Okavango Delta. But of course, they were free to fly to any of the neighbouring countries other than Angola. We put a ban on Angola for insurance purposes, as you well know.”

“You know why I’m curious, don’t you?”

I would be a bloody fool if I pretended that I didn’t.

“The briefcases, I guess.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’m sorry that I disturbed you, but do me a favour and find out what the An2 was doing there and whether they had any reason to be clearing the airfield. I’ll make my own enquiries. And I’m sure we will be seeing each other again.”

With that, he rose, Rockell following suit. The prick had never said a word. I didn’t like the smirk on the young man’s face. He never did like me.

I wondered whether Trichardt words contained a veiled threat as I watched through the slatted blinds of my office window as the black Mercedes departed. Its dust had not yet settled when Gavin burst into my office.

“What the fuck was that all about?” he asked with unconcealed dismay.

“Guess,” I said softly.

He just stared at me.

“The bloody Antonov and the briefcases, that’s what. At least, the good thing is that they couldn’t recognize anybody on the ground from the photos they had. God, it was that fuckin’ over fly that we never anticipated - damn it.” The over fly had been a chance in a thousand; just bad luck! “It’s just struck me, I think he didn’t ask for you because he still considers you his ace-in-a-hole. Be sure, he’s going to call on you expecting you to spy on me! Hell! Just imagine when he finds out you’re a party to this!”

Gavin blanched.

I didn’t think Gavin actually had yet realized the true implications of what he was letting himself in for, and I could see the thought suddenly strike home.

“Gavin,” I said seriously, “You have to remember that whoever took those cases is perceived to be a criminal. It doesn’t matter that the diamonds were extracted from the rivers at gunpoint, that people have been killed for them, or that they were used to buy weapons to kill others. In Trichardt’s eyes, that’s all horseshit. He believes we may have stolen them - period. The implications for us are serious, and we’re going to have to come up with a brilliant plan to convert the diamonds to cash and then secrete the cash away. And, of course, stay alive.”

I must confess my enthusiasm for the whole diamond affair was somewhat on the wane. Developments clearly indicated that the game was getting dangerous, and I was in the forefront. I realized I could be killed. Giving them back might have been an option, but it was now too late for that - something was bound to happen to us, or at least me!

“What about the police?”

“The police! That’s difficult to say. I would think that outside South Africa he dare not bring any police into it - nobody’s supposed to be buying these conflict diamonds, so I think we can exclude the cops. Though here in South Africa, it could be a different matter. I’m convinced that he’ll get BOSS involved but without police dockets, etcetera. They would want to deny any knowledge - I don’t think they would want the government, I mean those in the higher echelons, to know. This will be a private affair, you know, you scratch my back and I scratch yours. He’d probably share the spoils with his BOSS buddies and keep it quiet - capisce?”

“Ja I think I’ve got it. Well, we’d better get together with Maria. Christ! Now I know why you need her,” Gavin said sourly.

Chapter Fourteen

I contacted Maria during the course of the day and arranged that we would again meet at her hotel suite around eight. I then had to phone Francine and tell her that I was tied up for the evening. Although she didn’t ask, it was clear that she expected me to volunteer some reason. I was not about to lie again, so remained silent. That did not go down well either. I said I would see her the next day.

The atmosphere in the hotel suite that evening was subdued. We all realized that Trichardt was about to bring his big guns to bear. For us to try and outsmart BOSS with the investigative resources they had at their disposal, was no mean task. Maria remained our trump card. Nobody knew she was in the country. In fact, she could clear the decks for us, and all discriminatory evidence could disappear.

If you couldn’t find the money or the diamonds, they had nothing - or so I thought.

“Listen,” I said. “Be prepared. As sure as there are little apples, one of us will probably be taken in for questioning. I believe they’ll go for me. The idea is to stick to our original story - it will take time before they’re able to verify anything. After all, they who supposedly hired the An2 to take it to Muan have long since left the country and we don’t know where they’ve gone. Besides, the hire was an upfront cash transaction anyway. We don’t have any forwarding addresses.”

“But the bloody plane’s still at Alldays loaded with the Zodiac and bikes!” Gavin said loudly.

“I know; we need to fly it out of there to Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria; then we can say the aircraft was left there,” I snapped.

Gavin pondered my comment for a second.

“Okay, tomorrow first thing we fly to Alldays. I’ll fly the kite to Wonderboom. You arrange to have me picked up. We’ll hide the raft and bikes elsewhere. God help us if they check the airport logs.”

“They won’t,” I said although not sure whether I was right,

“Okay. Now..., what about the diamonds? We’ve got to get those bags out of the country - quickly!” He said.

“Forget about taking them on any commercial airline. It would be too risky, what with x-rays and occasional body and luggage searches. The chances of being nabbed are too big!” Maria said quietly but forcefully.

I looked at her. She was smartly dressed in a narrow beige skirt, which I thought to be part of a business suit. A cream silk blouse complemented this, and it appeared that she had had her hair done; the highlights shimmered in the light. She was exquisite.

“We need to get the stuff across the border, by car or by train -but to which country? If we can them out, we can stash them for as long as we like, well, at least until everything has been resolved - whatever,” Gavin ventured But still appearing to be somewhat at loss.

I had an idea. “None of the countries bordering on South Africa are advisable, except maybe Namibia. I mean, they’ve just gained their independence, a new government is taking over, all the previous sanction barriers are coming down, and there’s been a major influx of tourists - maybe that’s the way to go. Rest assured, BOSS, the South African secret police, certainly one of their arch-enemies definitely is no longer operative there,” I wasn’t entirely sure that I was correct but I was sure SWAPO was not about to listen to anything BOSS had to say.

“But Peter, how are we going to do this?” Maria asked.

I smiled.

“Easy. You put all your belongings into a crate and use a cartage company to take these as personal effects. Of course, this all accompanied by proper and certified documentation. Amongst your personal belongings will be our loot. This would then go into a truck, a very large truck, with a host of other consignments. They never search these - it’s too tedious and requires too many hands. They’d only initiate a search if there were any suspicion. You have to remember that the Namibian border post with South Africa at Nakop, is in the middle of bloody nowhere.”

I refilled my glass and continued.

“Hell! They haven’t even put a border gate up yet, let alone passport and proper documentation control. A couple of months ago Namibia was still part of South Africa. Besides, the two countries are still using the same currency.”

“All right. I’m going to retrieve the satchels and pack them, and as you suggest, have these consigned to Windhoek as personal belongings. Of course, I’ll disguise the contents; add clothes, shoes etc. - make it look like excess luggage going by road. I’ll address it to myself care of the transport company’s storage facility in Windhoek, to be personally collected by me. I’ll use an American passport to enter. I’ve a foreign diplomatic passport I can use to leave Namibia. Anyway, the country is full of foreign diplomats who continuously coming and going, they setting up embassies and consulates.”

“Sounds grand,” Gavin said, his sullen look gone, his expression now one of relief, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Of course, that’s still leaves our friends Trichardt and company,” I said feeling compelled to remind them

I then addressed Gavin. ”Please, whatever happens, you know bugger all, okay? You’ve got to play dumb. Can you do that?”

“Of course I can!”

“Just remember, you never were on the original flight, which Trichardt knows, and that the An2 was seen at Simjembela is news to you. In fact, you’re slightly pissed off with me because I hadn’t kept you in the loop about the hire-out of our private plane, the An2,“ I said, “I just want to divert attention to myself for a while until the bags and Maria are gone. All we need is a few days. But you have to be around to get me out of the shit if Trichardt tries something. Use Mike if you have to. Let’s just remember, kidnapping and murder are capital offences in South Africa - Trichardt will be wary. He won’t want to involve the South African Police.”

“I’m glad you think so. I don’t think he gives a damn about the cops or BOSS,” Gavin spat. “Is there anything else? My family is waiting.” He rose to his feet from the couch.

“No, that’s it, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gavin left, and Maria came towards me. I held her close.

“I’m worried for you,” she said. “Trichardt’s dangerous - I know a lot about him.”

“I’ll be all right,” I whispered in her ear. I must sound like a bleeding hero, I thought. In reality, I was scared shitless but this had gone too far, there was no turning back now. I couldn’t imagine Trichardt’s goons finding Maria, and I didn’t think they would put pressure on anybody else. The others couldn’t tell them much. I wasn’t quite sure I could say the same for myself. Clearly, Trichardt was yet not done with me.

“Look, I’m going now,” I said.

She drew away from me and looked up at my face.

“Aren’t you going to stay for a while?”

The insinuation wasn’t lost on me.

“No, better I go. I need to keep you safe,” I said. I could see she understood my concern. “Just keep in touch - play the Mary Donkin bit, nobody will be any the wiser. You know I’ll always respond.”

We kissed passionately. She then left, driving back to my bungalow in Broederstroom.

Chapter Fifteen

The car’s lights illuminated the tunnel that cut through the bush as I drove up the incline that led to my bungalow. The loose gravel foundation of the track crunched beneath the car’s wheels. I drove slowly, passing one of the tracks that forked off to the right. A large car was parked a short way along it, but I didn’t think anything of it as there a number of dwellings on the property and some of the families owned multiple cars.

I swung the car into the clearing that bordered my bungalow and saw Francine’s white Opel Astra parked below the porch. The bungalow’s lights were on and I realized she was waiting for me. She had keys to the bungalow.

The kitchen light was also on so I entered through the backdoor. I called to Francine, but heard no answer. I strode through the empty kitchen into the adjoining dining room and then through to the lounge. Here, only the table lamps were on, the lighting subdued.

I jerked to a halt. Francine sat on the couch, with two men dressed in suits and ties occupying the easy chairs facing her. I know a police officer when I see one, be he in uniform or not - and they were definitely police!

They did not stand when I walked in.

“Mr van Onselen?”

The large man nearest to me spoke abruptly, simultaneously pulling an automatic from inside his jacket. He didn’t point this at me but merely held it in his lap. The significance of this was not lost on me!

“Please don’t be alarmed and don’t try anything stupid. I would hate to have to shoot you in the leg or something.” He grinned falsely. He spoke English with a guttural Afrikaans accent. He was a large man with dark hair and a moustache. “I’m Warrant Officer Herbst and my colleague here is Warrant Officer Gerbers. We’re from the police - the security division.”

The security division: well, he may as well have said BOSS. No wonder his partner pulled a gun, only the security people would do that, not an ordinary police officer.

I looked at Francine - she looked scared but not terrified, her eyes wide as she stared at me. I saw the empty glasses on the coffee table in front of them and realized that she had offered the men a drink. Obviously, they’d been waiting a while.

I didn’t think the man would use the gun; he was just trying to scare me. Well, he was succeeding. It wasn’t the gun, it was what I knew would come next.

Gerber indicated I should sit, which I duly did, joining Francine on the couch.

“We have it on good authority that you flew into Zambia,” Herbst began.

“That’s not true,”

“Really? Well, then where is your An2 that was parked on the road at Simjembela?”

“Actually, I don’t know, but according to the rental agreement it is only due to be returned day after to-morrow. What the hell is this all about?”

God, I thought, I hope they believed that; we still needed a day to clear up our tracks.

“We are investigating a case of theft. In fact, we are looking for two briefcases containing money - US dollars and uncut diamonds. They’re the property of Mr. Trichardt.”

I realized I should ask him to produce a search warrant. He couldn’t just enter my house! Then I realized that Francine had let them in. Still, I was damn sure no police docket had been opened.

“I suppose you’re referring to those that went up in flames in the plane. Hasn’t this matter been resolved? All has been explained.” I said feigning surprise and some impatience.

Gerber chuckled. “Mr van Onselen, we’re not stupid.”

I know nothing else about those briefcases and their contents.” I responded with a show of barely concealed irritation.

“Well, seeing that you propose being hard-assed about this you’ll have to come with us. If you struggle or protest, I’ll have no choice but to clip you over the head with my gun. That’ll hurt, so please cooperate.”

He reached behind his back and produced a set of handcuffs, while his colleague produced another set. With the automatic now pointed at us both, they manacled our hands behind our backs.

“Why are you taking the woman?” I protested loudly.

“Just in case you refuse to talk,” he explained nonchalantly.

The implication was clear. I felt myself grow cold. These bastards were past experts at extracting information, as many would be able to testify. Their antics were legion amongst the black population. Some of their victims had jumped through the glass of sixth floor windows in police headquarters, unable to take the pain and humiliation these men had inflicted on them. Once you were in custody, they could legally hold you without trial for a hundred and eighty days.

“Please... leave the woman,” I said; I was close to begging.

They ignored me. They marched us outside and down the gravel track to where their car was parked a hundred or so yards away. It was the car I had seen when I arrived. They bundled us in the rear and drove off. The rear doors had no means of opening from the inside and neither could the windows be lowered. A bar was bolted to the floor, no doubt to manacle prisoners’ feet to it. Fortunately, they did not consider it necessary to do this to us.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked. They ignored me.

“Don’t worry, Francine,” I whispered.

Gerber swung round in the front seat.

“Silence!” he said harshly, “Another word and you’ll feel the butt of my pistol.”

I could see that he meant it. The latest developments had reduced Francine to a near catatonic degree of shock. Our hands were cuffed; there was little I could do to comfort her. I just leaned slightly sideways so that our shoulders touched, hoping that this would give her some comfort.

I tried to take note of where we were going. I expected that they would head for John Vorster Square, the notorious main police headquarters in Johannesburg, where a few of the many tortured apartheid dissidents had opted to rather plunge to their deaths than undergo further ingenious applications of torture at the hands of their captors. The windows were now shuttered; the outcry from the rest of the world had left the security police with no alternative. The simplest solution would have been to stop the torture; then there would be no need to ‘jump’. Of course, many said that the ‘jumping’ was helped along by the interrogators once they had what they wanted.

The car, however, travelled north towards Pretoria and then before the city, it turned off the highway and onto a gravel road. I realized that we were amongst the agricultural plots that surrounded the outer rim of the capital. Sure enough, we stopped in the front of an old Afrikaner homestead that still had a corrugated iron roof with and an enormous porch in the front, which stretched the length of the building. There were a few out buildings and two garages. I saw a few black men in a uniform I did not recognize; they armed with South African military R5 assault rifles.

Gerber opened the car’s rear door.

“Get out!” he barked. He then led us into the house passed an unmanned reception desk in the front room and down a corridor.

We were pushed into two adjoining rooms. My room was equipped with a lockable grille door, the normal wooden door being on the passage side. The single window was barred. The room contained a small steel table bolted to the floor, with a metal jug and cup. A bed-length, three-inch thick felt mattress lay on the floor, covered by a single folded blanket. A stainless steel toilet without a seat stood in a corner with a roll of toilet paper next to it.

I assumed Francine’s room was similar.

They removed my cuffs and the steel door clanged shut behind me as they pushed me in, followed by the wooden door.

I knew what was going to happen next, and the thought filled me with dread. Francine’s safety was my greatest concern: I was the sole cause of her current predicament, she an innocent bystander. They had taken her simply because they believed I would talk to stop her coming to any harm.

I knew that our arrest or abduction was illegal. The police here were fanatical about paperwork, just as the Nazis had been. Yet in this case, no documents had been written up or fingerprints taken - this was ominous. This was no police investigation, as it were.

I made a careful inspection of my cell. I soon realized that there was no escape; even McIver, the favourite escape artist on South African TV, would have had to agree.

About an hour later, there was a rattle at the door. It opened, as did the grille door. Two men walked in, one of whom I didn’t know; the other was Rockell. I should have known that the prize prick would be deeply involved with Trichardt and his minions! He came to stand in front of me and leered, a sneer on his face.

I couldn’t help myself; I just had to get my bit in.

“Well, if it isn’t the motherfuckin’ prize supercilious prick himself. I should have known; shit consorts with shit,” I said with as much contempt as I could muster.

The look of scorn disappeared from his face. The next moment a haymaker connected with my nose. I never saw it coming. I felt the crunch of cartilage as my head exploded and I dropped backwards to the floor, my head hitting the wooden planks with a resounding thump. I went out like a light.

It must have been only a few minutes later when I came round. My breath gurgled through the blood and remnants of my nose; blood had spattered my clothes. I became faintly aware of an altercation between Rockell and his companion as I slowly rose to a sitting position, the blood now dripping onto my pants.

I noticed Rockell leaving the room. I slowly staggered to my feet, supporting myself with one hand on the table. Rockell returned and stopped in front of me, derisively offering me a roll of paper towel. I made to reach for the towel and then kicked with everything I had, my foot in heavy Oxford brogues landing in his groin. He bent double grabbing his genitals as I brought my knee up. It smashed into his face. I felt his nose go. I hoped it would look worse than mine. At that moment, I could’ve killed the bastard with my bare hands!

That was the last thing I remembered.

Having been rendered unconscious for a second time, I came round with an excruciating headache and was hardly able to open my eyes. I was sure somebody had hit me over the head. I gingerly felt my scalp with my fingers and sure enough soon found the swelling. Slowly I became aware of my surroundings; I was now in another room. I was naked except for my skants and sitting on a rattan kitchen chair. While my hands were free, my feet and torso were tied to the chair.

My breath still rasped through my nose, which hurt like hell. At least I could breathe, and somebody had attempted to clean me up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that somebody sat a yard or two behind me. I twisted my head round and with a shock recognized Francine. She too was tied to a similar chair; she was stripped down to her bra and panties.

Rockell and Gerber were also in the room.

“You motherfuckers!” I screamed.

They ignored me.

I looked at Francine and saw that she had been crying. A feeling of dread and despair washed over me. This was entirely my fault.

“Are you okay?” I asked, realizing what a stupid question it really was. She just nodded.

“Let her go,” I said, but I knew this was not going to happen.

“If you don’t tell us what we need to know, we’ll hurt her,” Rockell promised.

“You touch her, you bastard and I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” I spat, simultaneously trying to rise from the chair. He just laughed. At least my retaliation had left him looking distinctively ugly and I felt a moment of satisfaction..

Again, I couldn’t help my mouth running off.

“I believe you won’t be wanking for a while,” I grinned.

He took a step towards me but Gerber grabbed him by the arm.

“Los dit!” he said in Afrikaans, his hold on Rockell preventing him from getting any nearer, only releasing him once he saw the man had himself under control again.

Gerber approached looking down at me.

“You’re hard-assed, aren’t you? You think you’re tough, eh.” He said it more as a statement than a question.

I grinned, hoping I appeared confident.

“Awright,” he said, his Afrikaans accent thick, “I want to know where the briefcases are.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied.

Gerber nodded at Rockell who stepped towards Francine and smacked her hard across the face. I lost it, screaming and shouting, trying to lift my chair from the floor but it was securely bolted down. Eventually, I calmed down, breathing heavily, consumed with hatred.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Gerber said. “I’ve got a job to do, and the sooner it is done the better. I advise you to talk, and please - don’t lie. It can only get worse for her.”

I looked at Francine: she was crying, the one side of her face fiery red.

It was at that moment that I promised myself that I would kill both of them.

Gerber asked me again.

“Kowalski left them in the plane,” I yelled. “They were destroyed by the fire.” I waited for Rockell to smack Francine again. He didn’t.

“Then why did your aircraft land at Simjembela?”

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. The bastards weren’t sure!

“As I’ve told Trichardt before, we hired the plane out to some guy, Drummond, I think his name was, and his crowd from the States; they’re actually from Houston in Texas. They said they were going to Muan. We never stipulated where they could go; only that they were not to fly to Mozambique or Angola - you know, because of insurance.”

He stared at me for a moment and then looked at Francine. She was listening intently.

“You know, of course, that if you’re lying you’re both dead.”

My heart sank, I knew he really meant it; these BOSS thugs had already killed so many, two more victims wouldn’t make any difference. But I realized they were still guessing. That was my only hope.

“Take them back to the cells. Give them their clothes,” he suddenly said to Rockell. He looked at me again. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He then left.

I lay on the felt mattress in only my underpants, covered by the single blanket. The sun’s light shone through the window and I was wondering what everybody would think when they established that neither Francine nor I were at work and nor were we answering our phones at home. I assumed that Gavin would take a ride out to my place to check.

The lock rattled and a black security guard walked in with a tray, Gerber held the door open. No words passed between us.

When I looked at the contents of the tray, I thought they were fattening me up for the kill! There were eggs, bacon and sausage plus the other usual breakfast trimmings, and a large cup of coffee. Well, they had never asked me how I liked my coffee, but then who was I to complain? I was famished. Hopefully they were doing the same for Francine.

Every time I thought of her, I cringed. And what was worse, this wasn’t over yet. I had yet to add my liaisons with Maria to my list of dastardly deeds. If she knew it all, I’d be in serious trouble! That’s the trouble with us men; all it takes is an attractive and willing woman, the right time, the right place and suddenly we’re able to cast off all obligations of the heart. Even if for a short while only.

I finished the breakfast and felt better except for my nose and the puffiness around my eyes. I was sure I had two beautiful shiners in the making. I was also sure my nose required professional attention; at least it needed to be straightened and splints put in. I did not want to imagine what I looked like! At least, the throb in my head had diminished.

My biggest concern was Francine’s welfare. She was an innocent party to this and must surely rue the day she met me. Other than telling them, I had no solution to our problem and to admit to taking the cases could well aggravate matters. My one hope was Gavin, but I could not imagine how he could assist if he was not aware of our whereabouts.

The door opened again: it was Gerber accompanied by a black police Askari. I was not surprised; nobody really knew for sure, but it was believed that the Askaris were black dissidents whom the police had turned, probably being the only way these blacks could avoid torture and death.

“Where’s Rockell?” I asked, hoping the bastard had died. Probably gone to the doctor, I thought. Not that he would be able to help. One thing I was sure of, he wasn’t going to be humping for a while.

Gerber ignored me. The Askari approached with a pair of handcuffs. After cuffing me, they frog-marched me off to the interrogation room. Francine was already there she already tied to a chair. I looked at her and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” She gave me a hardly discernible broken smile.

Christ! The woman has guts! There was no missing the bruise displayed on her cheek.

“Listen,” I said with a snarl, “I warn you people. You can do what you like, but leave the woman alone - she knows nothing. She doesn’t even work for me.”

“We know all that, but she’s all we’ve got to make you talk,” Gerber said.

“Your fuckin’ scum! Do you usually torture black mothers and sisters to make their sons talk?” I could feel a rage about to overcome me. I got myself under control; I needed to remain lucid.

“Nou luister jy vir my!” the bastard said, reminding me that I had better listen carefully. “I’ve got a converter here and I can adjust the voltage. I can attach these terminals to a couple of interesting places on her body and apply the current and have her shrieking the roof off, or I can put her thumb in a thumbscrew,” he said, waving an evil-looking device in the air. “Or I can extract a molar; of course, without anaesthetic.” He pointed at the forceps on a table. “What will it be?”

“Please... please don’t do it,” Francine whimpered. My heart bled.

Suddenly there was a thumping of footsteps on the wooden floor of the passageway and then Trichardt and Rockell burst into the room.

“Wat de fok gaan hier aan?” Trichardt shouted, “Maak haar los!”

I experienced the first glimmer of hope. Trichardt obviously had not known that they had taken Francine. Kidnapping women was going too far even for him it seemed, and now he was demanding her immediate release.

He walked up to me and slapped me from side to side, my head rocking and ringing like a church bell.

“Don’t think because I’m releasing her you’re off the hook. I know you and that Garcia woman have my money and I want it back. I’m letting you go so that you can discuss it with her, wherever she may be, but you will bring me my money and diamonds.”

As if to give credence to his threat, he drew his fist back and smashed it into my face.

Actually, the blow wasn’t that hard, but I blacked out - I could only take so much pain.

Chapter Sixteen

When I came to, I found myself lying on a gurney in a hall with a grey, vinyl tiled floor and enamel painted white walls. Bright fluorescent strip lighting illuminated the room. Looking down, I saw that I was again dressed in my blood-splattered suit. I felt groggy and really just wanted to go to sleep again, but a nurse approached me with a clipboard in her hand.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Midrand Medi-Fix Clinic,” she smiled professionally.

“When did I get here?”

“A while back, but because your nose is so bad, we gave you a strong sedative, that’s why you’ve been asleep so long. It will take a while before it wears off. We’ll be taking you into theatre now, but I just need you to sign this consent form.” She held the clipboard out to me.

I signed: I could feel my nose needed attention. I had already gingerly touched my face; it was badly swollen and my eyes were mere slits. As soon as I signed, she wheeled me into a cubicle and handed me one of those stupid hospital gowns, which you have to tie behind your back. A junior nurse was called in to assist me and ensure I didn’t fall.

“What are you going to do with my clothes?” I asked.

“We got your business address and telephone number from your wallet. Your partner’s on the way. He’ll bring other clothing. But don’t rush; you’ll be here for a day or two,” she laughed sympathetically.

I was hardly back on the gurney when two male-nurses arrived and wheeled me into an elevator. The sedative suddenly kicked in again and I fell asleep before I found out where they were taking me.

I woke the next morning at six and was immediately aware of the beating I had taken. Every muscle and joint in my body ached, my eyes were almost swollen shut, and my nose was completely blocked from where the doctors had obviously inserted splints and plugs. Even my lips were swollen. Between Rockell and Gerber, they seemed to have really made a meal of me. It would definitely be more than a few days before I was mobile again.

A nurse dressed in a navy blue nursing outfit walked into the single private ward.

“You’re awake,” she chirped. With my eyes looking like they did, I wondered how she realized this! I’m sure I looked like Frankenstein waking from the dead in one of those old black and white movies, my head bandaged, and my nose crossed with plaster strips. I hoped she was not going to administer another of those fantasy-world injections; I was already dancing with the fairies. Fortunately, she had no needles but I dropped off to sleep again anyway.

When I opened my eyes the next time, both Shirley and Gavin were standing round my bed.

Shirley squeezed my hand.

“God, you look awful!” she said. She seemed close to tears, not that I could see too well through those slits of mine.

“Christ, they really beat you up badly,” Gavin said.

“Actually, it looks worse than it really is. It’s only my nose that’s broken,” I mumbled through my swollen lips, but that was not my first concern. “How’s Francine? More to the point, where is she?”

“She’s fine except for the bruise on her cheek and a slightly puffy eye,” Shirley said. “She said you’re not to worry yourself: she’s a strong woman.”

Shirley was still applying her stamp of approval to the relationship Francine and I had. God knows what her reaction would be if she knew the full extent of my liaison with Maria! She’d go ballistic, making our work relationship near impossible. I would become the new dog on the block.

Shirley left to return to the office without asking me what was going on; I assumed that either Gavin or Francine might have filled her in without telling her the whole story.

Gavin brought up a chair and sat down, bending towards me.

“Trichardt got hold of me, wanting to know if I had anything to tell him,” he said once he was sure Shirley was out of earshot. “I stuck to my original story. When he left, I could see that he was not sure what to believe. He asked me whether I had ever seen or spoken to ‘that American woman’ as he put it, who had returned from the plane crash with you. I played dumb and said no.”

“Good boy,” I said. “Have you heard from Maria?”

“All I can tell you is that she’s retrieved the cases and presumably is busy getting them out of the country. The An2 is back at Lanseria and you’ll never find the Zodiac or the quads. I’ve hidden Maria’s special arsenal in my office, so if you ever want to shoot somebody just come to me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

I tried to smile through my puffed lips.

“She also said that we should blame her and Kowalski for the disappearance of the cases. She said that they would never find her even though Trichardt seemed to have BOSS assisting him. She’s a trained operative - did you know that - and has her employer’s network at her disposal. She thought we’d both know who that is!”

“Brave woman.”

He nodded.

“Peter, I’ve been thinking about what Maria recommended, you know, that we blame her. It’s actually not a bad idea. Why you don’t say that she and Kowalski dealt with the cases and that they instructed you not to mention them to anybody - you don’t know what they did with them, but before the UNITA patrol arrived, they no longer had them in their possession. What happened to them, you don’t know.”

”That would put a lot of pressure on her,” I grumbled.

“So what? She’s already being hunted as we speak. Only they don’t know where to start.”

“Okay, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. No doubt Trichardt is already planning his next session with me,” I murmured.

“You can be sure of that. The bastard knows that in the condition you’re in, you’re not going anywhere in hurry.”

When dealing with Trichardt, getting as close to the truth as possible would be the way to go. Why not say ‘yes, the plane crashed and Kowalski lugged the two briefcases with him, slowing us down. He never indicated to me what they contained but it was obvious it must be something of value, because he was so determined not to part with them. The one danger we all feared was being confronted by a patrol, be it UNITA or MPLA. They would examine the cases’ contents and if there was anything of value, they would disappear as so would be - they’d not want any witnesses. Maria and Kowalski had discussed this at length, out of my earshot. I thought she was affiliated with you. Maria and Kowalski disappeared for a while and then reappeared sans the briefcases. I never questioned them as to their whereabouts. Of course, I realized they had hidden them, because that was the only thing they could have done.’

Gavin and I threw this idea around for a while and finally decided that this is what I would tell Trichardt. It sounded quite plausible. And if he should ask me why I had previously kept this hidden, I would say that Kowalski had told me never, under any circumstances, to admit anything to anyone, even if anything were to happen to him.

”You know, he might just believe you,” Gavin said. “He surely must have known to what lengths Kowalski would have gone to keep these from being taken. He knows the Angolans better than we do and that any rebel group, be it friend or foe, would have stolen them.”

I was sure that an intense search was underway to find Maria. Trichardt would know that it was not sheer coincidence that the runway had been cleared at Luiana and that the An2 was parked at Simjembela. Somehow, I had to be involved, but hopefully only as the source of hire for the aircraft. Would he believe that both Gavin and I were innocent bystanders?

I was sure that if Maria could outsmart Trichardt, avoid capture, and just disappear, given time, the intensity of the situation would dissipate and life would return to a semblance of normality with Trichardt eventually believing I really had nothing to do with the disappearance of the briefcases.

The use of the An2 was the loose link.

“Christ! When you get back, make sure the books are corrected so that if anybody should ask about the hire of the An2 and its movements, we don’t give the game away,” I said.

“I’ll do that, and brief Shirley,” Gavin replied.

I looked at my partner and friend.

“Gavin, do you think we should give him the cases and maybe save mine and Maria’s lives, and maybe even yours as well?” I asked quietly.

“No!” he replied instantly, his voice devoid of doubt. It was good to know that I had his support: and I knew that Maria would have said the same.

The nurse entered pushing a trolley.

“Time for your medicine,” she smiled playfully. I knew the only thing that she would want to administer was a painkiller. I needed it.

1 Certificate of Airworthiness

2 Certificate of Airworthiness