Bond spent many hours the next day sitting in an anteroom outside Abigail Kross’s office hoping for an appointment. When she eventually saw him she seemed distant and preoccupied and her apology was perfunctory. Bond asked if she could use her authority to arrange an interview with Brigadier Adeka. She said that would be impossible. The brigadier had a lifelong distrust of the press and never spoke to journalists. Bond played the French card – ‘Agence Presse Libre would see it as an honour to be able to speak to the brigadier exclusively’ – but in vain.
‘Perhaps you could talk to Jakobus Breed,’ Madame Kross then suggested. ‘He supervises the foreign military advisers.’
‘I’m already familiar with Mr Breed,’ Bond said, savouring the euphemism. Then he added, ‘I met the brigadier’s brother in London,’ hoping that this claim would give him a little more credence. ‘He wanted to pass on a message to his brother.’
‘Gabriel Adeka is no friend of Dahum,’ Abigail Kross said, her smile fading permanently. ‘His name will open no doors here, Mr Bond. Especially not with his brother.’
Bond left her, thinking hard. Madame Kross was a woman of intelligence and integrity, Bond recognised, but her absolute intransigence seemed almost perverse to him. Why wouldn’t the brigadier speak to the foreign press? Propaganda was a highly effective weapon when it was well deployed. Something strange was going on here. Perhaps Hulbert Linck was the man to approach next – maybe he could apply some pressure.
Back at the Press Centre, Bond sent a telex to the fake APL address he had been given and that went straight to Transworld Consortium in Regent’s Park. He wrote bland stuff about plucky little Dahum defying the odds, soldiering on gallantly, but Bond knew that the subtext would let M know he was ‘in country’. He added a postscript that he was making every effort to interview Brigadier Adeka but ‘operational difficulties’ made it seem unlikely that it would be granted. He also mentioned that the chief executive of OG Palm Oil Export and Agricultural Services was currently indisposed. Blessing’s fate would at least be investigated now.
He spent another bibulous evening with Dupree, Haas and Breadalbane and learned from Haas that anyone could book a seat on an empty outbound flight on the Super Constellation for $100. The actual port of Port Dunbar was completely blockaded and the only way out of the country was by air – or overland, if you were prepared to risk your neck beneath the watchful eye of the MiGs.
Bond climbed upstairs to bed in a bad mood, wondering if he should just pay his $100, quit Dahum and admit failure. It went against his nature, but he couldn’t see how there was any way he could get close to Adeka, short of storming his headquarters. And he had a horrible feeling that this military stalemate might leave him stranded in Dahum for weeks or months, like Digby Breadalbane.
He was woken before dawn by an urgent knocking on his door. It was Sunday, in a state of real excitement.
‘We have a scoop, Mr Bond. There has been a small battle and we have defeated the enemy. I thought you might like to see it.’
Bond dressed as quickly as possible and Sunday drove him north out of Port Dunbar on increasingly minor roads. As they bumped along through the pearly, misty light Bond wondered if this was a simple propaganda exercise – something staged for him, the gullible newly arrived journalist, who would duly report it as a Dahumian feat of arms. His mood was still sour – he wasn’t expecting much.
After an hour’s drive, they turned off the metalled road and entered an area of mangrove swamp and winding creeks. The road they drove along was built up above the watercourses on a kind of revetted embankment. Then they began to pass jubilant Dahumian troops returning from the front and in the morning sky they saw smoke curling up above the treeline.
The village they arrived at had been burnt out and destroyed weeks previously: shattered mud huts, charred roof timbers and leafless trees signalled a napalm strike. Bond and Sunday left the Peugeot and walked through exuberant milling Dahumian soldiers towards the giant shade tree at the village’s centre. Here they found Breed and half a dozen other white mercenaries standing round eight Zanzari soldiers’ corpses laid out in a row. A little way off at another entrance to the village was a still smoking, upended armoured personnel carrier, a hole punched through its side – perhaps, Bond wondered, from a bazooka or an anti-tank gun unloaded from the Super Constellation the night before.
Breed turned to meet him, wiping away a tear. He was wearing a grey T-shirt with ‘HALO’ printed on the front and his bashed kepi was pushed back on his head at a rakish angle. He was exhibiting his usual shifting cocktail of moods – at once jovial, wired and sinister.
‘Yah, we know they were coming so we just waited up here in the village,’ Breed said. ‘Bang-bang – got these fellas and the others just ran away. We’re gonna chase them back to Sinsikrou.’
He shouted orders and some soldiers shinned up into the shade tree with lengths of rope that they secured to the branches and let fall. Then Breed had a man bring him a clinking, heavy sack and from it drew out what looked like giant fish hooks, six inches long, with a large eye. Breed attached the dangling ropes to the hooks and then, to Bond’s shock and surprise, he thwacked the sharp end in and under the jaws of the dead soldiers, like a stevedore walloping a bale hook into a sack. He tugged sharply at the hook to make sure its grip was secure under the jawbone.
‘Pull away, boys,’ he shouted.
The men in the tree hauled on the ropes and the dead bodies were lifted aloft by their jaws. Like so many fishing trophies – like marlin or bluefin, Bond thought – on a dock after a successful fishing expedition.
‘Stop!’ Breed shouted when the dead men were three feet off the ground. ‘Secure them there!’
The ropes were lashed to the branches and the dead men hung there, twirling gently. Bond had seen lynched men before but these bodies looked different, unusually dehumanised by the hooks and the forced jut of their lower jaws and the tearing stretching strain on their necks that were taking the full weight of their bodies. He thought as they hung there that they looked like ghoulish sides of beef in a butcher’s chill room, the dangling arms and legs all the more obscene because of the unnatural angle of the head with the giant hook through the jaw.
Breed looked on with an eerie, satisfied smile on his face.
‘That’s a good haul,’ he said. ‘The more the merrier. One isn’t enough, you need a cluster, like. Once I strung up more than thirty. I tell you it—’
‘Why do you do it?’ Bond interrupted.
‘Because it freaks them out when they see this,’ Breed said, cheerfully, lowering his voice as he spoke to Bond. ‘I leave them all over the forest, hanging from trees. Scares the shit out of the Zanzaris – bad juju.’
‘Where did you learn that little trick?’ Bond asked, concealing his disgust.
‘Down in Matabeleland in ’66,’ Breed said. ‘I used to string up the ZIPRA terrs we caught like this.’ He smiled. ‘What do you say in French? Pour encourager les autres.’
Bond turned away from the dangling bodies, feeling nauseous, and went to join Sunday, who looked equally distressed.
‘Does he do this all the time?’ Bond asked Sunday.
‘Yes. He like it too too much.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Bond said. ‘It’s revolting.’
‘I go ’gree for you, sar,’ Sunday said. ‘They are just soldiers, like our own men.’
Bond looked over to see Breed striding around and shouting at the Dahumian troops, forming them into a rough column of about 200 men. They were charged and energised by their victory, armed with an odd variety of weapons – AK-47s, SLRs and ancient World War Two Lee – Enfield rifles. They all had machetes at their waist in leather scabbards or thrust through their belts. Every one of them, Bond noticed, despite their patchwork uniforms, had the red, white and black flag of Dahum sewn on to their right shoulder.
‘Bring him on,’ Breed shouted and from behind a ruined hut a witch doctor appeared. Bond couldn’t think of any other word to describe him. His face was painted white with lurid green circles around his eyes. A great mass of shells and beads was wrapped around his neck and wrists setting up a coarse rattle as he shuffled forward in a half-dance. He was bare-chested and wore a thick dry grass skirt that fell to his ankles and he carried a gourd and a long horsehair fly whisk. He shuffled up and down the column of men – who stood there rapt and rigid – and as he went he drank from the gourd and spat out the liquid through his clenched teeth in a fine spray into their faces and flicked their chests and groins with the fly whisk, chanting all the while in a low monotone. When he had sprayed and touched them all he screamed shrilly, three times, stepped back, made a weird sign of benediction over them and shuffled off behind the house again.
‘Take ’em away, Dawie,’ Breed shouted at one of the other white mercenaries and the men wheeled around and, beginning a chant, started to jog out of the village in pursuit of the rest of the Zanzari soldiers fleeing back up the road to what they hoped was safety.
Breed whooped encouragement at them. ‘I just love that,’ he said to Bond, taking out a pack of Boomslangs and offering it to Bond. They both lit up.
‘Great show, isn’t it?’ Breed said. ‘That fetish priest is worth a thousand men. They won’t fight without his blessing.’
‘What does all the mumbo-jumbo mean?’ Bond asked.
‘He makes them immortal, you see,’ Breed said. ‘If they die today they come back as spirits and continue the fight. You can’t see them but they’re fighting beside you.’ He chuckled. ‘Now they’re fearless, those boys. They even want to die – to become a “ghost warrior”. Amazing.’ He dabbed at his weeping eye. ‘If they catch those Zanzaris it’ll be quite a picnic, I tell you.’ He turned away. ‘Let’s head back,’ he said. ‘I just wanted you to see this – good copy for your newspapers, eh?’
Bond was happy to leave the village and its shade tree with its hanging fruit of dangling corpses.
‘We’ll pull back,’ Breed said. ‘Mine the embankments. They’re attacking us all over the place at the moment – but there’ll be no way through here.’
They walked back towards the Peugeot.
‘I want to speak to Adeka,’ Bond said. ‘Can you help?’
‘You must be joking,’ Breed said. ‘Even I can’t get to see him.’
‘How do you communicate?’
‘Most of the time I get these written orders. Reinforce there. Destroy that bridge. Move more men there. Repel this attack. Fall back and regroup. He seems to see the big picture, Adeka. It’s uncanny, man. And he distributes all the ordnance from the Janjaville flights – you get what he gives you. He seems to know what he’s doing – for a black brigadier.’ He smiled at Bond. ‘Fancy a drink?’
He didn’t wait for a reply and led Bond over to a US Army jeep with a canvas canopy and a tall whippy aerial. In the back was an impressive-looking, many-dialled radio set and a young man in an over-large tin helmet sat there listening to the traffic. Breed reached into a knapsack and brought out a bottle of schnapps. He fished around some more and came up with two cloudy shot glasses. He set the glasses down on the jeep’s bonnet and poured them both a drink. Bond didn’t feel like drinking with Breed but perhaps some hard liquor was required after what he’d witnessed in the village.
‘Proost,’ Breed said, and they both knocked back the schnapps in one. Bond felt his throat burn. Strong stuff. Breed topped them up.
‘So,’ Bond said. ‘Matebeleland, 1966 . . . Rhodesian African Rifles?’
‘No. Light Infantry. The good old RLI.’ Breed pointed at the two scars on his cheek. ‘I got shot in the face by a ZANLA terr. Thought he’d killed me. I was six months in a hospital in Salisbury then I was invalided out of the army. Lucky for me Hulbert Linck came by recruiting. Five thousand US a month in any bank in the world you choose. Hard to resist. So me and a few of my RLI mates signed up for Dahum. They’re a good bunch of guys, though, the Dahum grunts. When the juju man fires them up they’ll fight till they drop.’ He grinned. ‘That’s why, in spite of everything, we’re winning. We’ve got bigger balls than the Zanzaris.’
Bond said nothing. Breed poured another schnapps.
‘What do you think, Bond?’ he suggested. ‘There’s a little club in town – nice atmosphere, good music, European alcohol, very obliging girls. They like us white boys fighting for their country. Want to meet there tonight?’
Bond did not want to go out on the town with Kobus Breed. Not in a thousand years.
‘Actually, I’m not sure I can make it. Copy to file.’
Breed’s finger tapped the Dahum flag on Bond’s jacket.
‘You could pass for one of us.’
There was an audible crackle of static from the radio in the jeep and Breed turned to see what was going on. The operator was intent, concentrating, nodding.
‘It’s for you, Boss.’
Breed strode over and put on the headphones. As he listened he looked progressively more serious.
‘Yah. OK – roger that.’ He took off the headphones and wiped his eye.
‘What’s up?’ Bond asked.
‘A pretty major shit-storm. All this stuff we did here today was a feint. There’s another Zanza Force column moving on the airstrip.’ He gestured at the radio, ‘That came from Adeka.’
‘Himself?’
‘No. But relayed from him. I got to move, man. This is serious.’
‘Mind if I tag along?’ Bond suggested, spontaneously.
Breed looked at him, a little askance. When he spoke his voice was heavy with scepticism.
‘You ever been in combat?’ Breed asked.
Bond smiled, tiredly. ‘You ever heard of World War Two?’