End It With A Lie

by Peter M. Atkins

CHAPTER 19

   

  Horton stood among a thick belt of bush that held fast to the steep banks of a small creek. It flowed down the lower gradual slopes of the forested mountains, and in the pale moonlight he could see glistening water rippling over black rocks. Looking down into the valley it was easy to make out the fortified area, it was active with movement of troop transport trucks and smaller jeep type vehicles.

  Away to his left, further up along the valley he could just make out the lights of another of the encampments, which he knew, would also be alive with troops and armaments.

  In the distance to his right he noted a glow on the skyline which gave away the position of the capital. He reckoned it would be less than ten miles to its outskirts. From there it was about another three miles to the government administration offices, where he was to eliminate certain ministers when the rebels took control of the capital.

  Most of the Government officials would escape, while others would fall into the hands of the rebels. In some cases, his job would be done for him, although he hoped he would find two in particular. Dead or alive, it made no difference to him.

  The attack on the two encampments would begin at dawn, and he looked to the east where the sky had begun to lighten. A glance at his watch told him he would have less than half hour to wait.

  He walked back up the trail and called his band together, speaking out some instructions to his single interpreter. This was the first time he’d informed them of what was about to go down and they listened intently, nodding that they understood.

  Horton led them to where they quietly positioned themselves in the thick belt of bush. It screened them from the clearing they would have to cross as soon as the sky lightened. He felt good, as he always did before battle. Some part of him came alive.

  He licked his lips and was ready.

  The mortars started first, and he listened as they whooshed overhead, before plumes of dust and dirt heralded their arrival.

  A young voice screamed and a truck exploded.

  He counted the bombs, 6, 7, 8...

  They’d only had 12 for each of the camps, and he knew that what had started here, would surely have started at the other camp by now.

  ...9, 10... He stood and began to run across the open area, hoping the last two bombs didn’t fall short.

  The African who he’d instructed to cut the wire was at it already, and had snipped through the last wire, enough to give them quick access.

  Horton’s target was the sand bagged machine gun just the other side of the wire.

  ...11, 12. The last of the bombs exploded and he knew they would be enough to keep the gunners’ heads down.

  His timing was spot on, and as the gunners lifted their heads to ready their fire Horton shot the three of them down.

  The Africans who followed him jumped the sandbags and finished unnecessarily what he’d already accomplished, and although Horton questioned their methods he understood their madness and their hatred.

  Five minutes later it was all but over as the camp fell to the rebels, with only the odd shot ringing out as they killed off the wounded. There weren’t many of these sounds, as Horton knew these people would do most of their killing with the big machetes they carried.

  The same big blades he’d seen them use on the villagers.

  Men, women and children alike had fallen to the long blades before their belongings, and the supplies delivered by the Red Cross were carried from their burning villages.

  Horton had heard the blades as they whispered out their bludgeoning sounds of death and disfigurement many times. He heard it again now as a scream filled the air, and then a hoot of laughter. Smoke and flame roared from a truck as its fuel tank erupted. A dying man moaned and Horton walked to him and shot him in the head, cursing as blood and brains splattered on his boots.

  A couple of the trucks had been smashed beyond repair. Two more had received minor damage, while some had come away unscathed. These were loaded with weapons and ammunition the government troops would need no more, along with their food supplies and jerry cans of spare fuel.

  Horton noticed there were many more rebels today, and figured the fence sitters were joining up with the rebels. Now that it seemed almost certain the government troops would be defeated.

  When the trucks were loaded, the ragged army left the burning camp and headed up the highway singing their song of victory. They travelled slowly, for they knew that although a battle was won, the war was still in progress. Only a few miles had passed before the singing died down and tension began to mount, as they began to encounter small pockets of resistance.

  Horton looked back at the smoke which rose above the burning camps and knew it would be visible from the capital. If not, then word would soon spread that the rebels were almost upon the city.

  *****

  Garry Sudovich sat in his office whose windows overlooked industrial buildings, upon which hovered Sydney’s summer heat haze.

  He gazed into the shimmering rooftop heat as he took stock of his day.

  It was three-thirty in the afternoon and he’d just finished his last meeting for the day. In which he’d learned the ship carrying cargo from Britain on behalf of one of his new business partners was having engine trouble. It was somewhere on the seas between Tokyo and Sydney, with a possible two-week delay in its expected arrival. He thought of the money involved in this import deal. The amount of money he was being paid suggested the cargo was, if not unclean, then maybe a little tainted.

  The people who owned the cargo also rented premises from him in Sydney, so regardless of whether the cargo was clean or not, he was connected to them.

  If the shit hit the fan, then he’d just tell the truth. Deny knowledge of everything, other than importing in good faith. If things went smoothly, then his new yacht was as good as paid for. There had also been talk of industrial strife brewing at the wharves. He wondered if the ship would arrive just in time to become one more of the unloaded in a harbour closed down by the unions.

  Hence even more delay, and an even later payment.

  He’d hoped the deal would have been concluded earlier, because of the risk that his silent partner might find out.

  Tom Lee was not a man to be crossed, and the less he knew the better.

  Sudovich existed because of Lee. Their dealings had come about initially because Sudovich had hit a rough spot on the share market, and without Lee’s capital input he would have been hard pressed to survive.

  Now Lee owned fifty-one percent of his soul.

  Sudovich risked his life by skimming the profits and private deals. He knew the cost of being discovered, but his need to live the high life and be seen by others to be successful was too great. It was almost like an addiction. He wanted to stop, but he just couldn’t take his hand from the till.

  His copy of the days Financial Times informed him that his share prices were holding.

  The shares he’d bought in an oil company should have gone through the roof by now, he thought. He’d read in the same newspaper a week ago that the company had reported good results while drilling on the Canadian-Alaskan border. Information backed up by an Australian Stock Exchange report.

  He decided to give it a few more days, and began to read an article about another Australian Company. One who had interests abroad, in Africa, who was now slowing operations because of unrest in the country under the control of President Axele.

  The thought of Abu’s ugly fat face sprang into mind. He wondered how the big African was handling the situation, and then remembered his intention to call him on the day he’d been stuck in the traffic. This thought brought to mind the C.D bandits and the loss of his mobile phone. He cursed them again.

  He opened his desk drawer and extracted a small book. It held the phone numbers of people he would rather not have in his normal business directory. He normally kept it in his secret safe, and made a mental note that he should put it back in there and not leave it l
ying around.

  He flicked it open to find the initials A.M, beside which was the Africans phone number. He lit another cigarette and waited impatiently for a connection.

  The answer came with the sound of a heavily accented woman’s voice.

  “Office of the Minister of Overseas Affairs, can I help you?”

  “Yes, I wonder if I could speak to Abu Mohammed.” “Is he expecting your call, sir?”

  “No he’s not, but if he is there, could you get a message to him. Tell him that Garry is on the phone and needs to speak to him urgently. He will talk to me.” The line went silent and Sudovich wondered how many ears were maybe listening to this call. He hoped none, and that could possibly be right because this phone he used was a new line. One he had changed every month or so, trying to keep a step ahead of the people who ‘listened’.

  Sudovich heard a grunt on the line and then the Africans deep voice.

  “Who is this that I speak to, please?”

  Sudovich refrained from using his whole name.

  “It’s me Garry, in Australia.”

  Abu voice lightened.

  “Garry. How are you my good friend?”

  The way that Abu said, ‘How are you,’ sounded more like he felt the need to call out the greeting because of the distance, rather than the basic close to the second party. ‘How are you?’

  “I am well Abu, and how are you?” Sudovich had a way, that to him sounded like he needed to speak like the foreigner he spoke to, and sometimes he wondered if he over enunciated.

  “It is dangerous times my good friend. I thought that would have been obvious in the letter I wrote to you?”

  Sudovich stopped short and tried to remember a letter from the African. “What letter?”

  Abu noted the confusion in the Australians voice and replied, “The letter I faxed to you after you replied to my original fax telling you to set the wheels in motion for another transfer of funds.”

  “I know of no letter.”

  The Africans voice went cold, “Do not play games with me my friend. I have long arms and I can reach out to you.” Abu said in a cold voice.

  Sudovich didn’t know what to say, and by now he had forgotten any fears of the ‘listeners’.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  “Abu, I have no idea of what in the world you are talking about. You talk in mystery riddles.”

  A cold hand touched Abu’s heart as his fist tightened on the phone hand piece.

  “Do not play games with me. You know of what I speak. You set the wheels in motion.” Abu said again. This time his voice became more venomous as he almost hissed over the phone, and reached a higher note as Sudovich moved the phone away from his ear, “You are trying to steal from me.”

  Sudovich was by now confused.

  “Abu, I am at a loss. I have had no communication with you since the last transfer. When was that? Twelve months ago?”

  Abu’s curse came down the phone.

  Sudovich held the phone away again. He waited until the verbal storm had passed.

  “Abu, calm down a minute, this is getting nowhere. Tell me what has happened?” It was quiet at the Africans end of the phone, except for the fast and heavy breathing.

  Sudovich listened as the African calmed. There was a quaver in his voice as he told of everything that had happened, from the time of the first fax to the money transfer to Liechtenstein.

  Sudovich couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The story sounded so incredible. Someone had ripped off the African, easily, and the African had helped them. At the end of the tale of woe, silence hung in the air.

  “We have to find the money. Have you any idea as to whoever has taken it?”

  The African was close to tears, and Sudovich could hear the quiet sobs which evolved from deep in the Africans chest.

  “Abu, get it together, we must search. Do you still have all the paperwork used in this transfer?” Sudovich almost said, ‘Monumental fiasco’, but at the last moment caught himself.

  “Yes. It is all in my office safe.” Abu sobbed as Sudovich leaned back in his chair. He told the African to get the papers, and then listened to the sounds of the African as he left his chair and moved about his office.

  A few moments later the African picked up the hand piece.

  “What now? What can you do from there?” Sudovich thought a moment, not really knowing the answer to that question himself. He paused again as he formed a plan.

  “Do you have the original fax from the thief?” He asked.

  He heard a shuffle of paper and then the Africans voice.

  “Yes, it is in my hand now.”

  Sudovich directed the African to look at the very top of the page.

  “Is there a name or a number, which is normally encoded into fax machines evident there, at the top of the page?”

  There was a moment’s pause as the African squinted at the very fine print.

  “Yes, there is no name, but there is what appears to be a telephone number.”

  Sudovich asked of the area code and listened as the African spoke while he lifted a telephone book from the bottom drawer of his desk. He opened the book, found the listings of area codes and ran his finger down the column until he finally came to a matching set of digits.

  “I’ve found the number. It covers a large area of outback New South Wales. Abu, do you have any other documents at hand which may point to the name of the thief?” Abu replied that he had, and Sudovich asked him for all of the names on all of the letters. Knowing it was unlikely the thief would use his real name, but maybe the paper which gave authorization to the bank account would give a clue.

  Sudovich wrote the names associated to the signatures on the authorization document, and then tried to soothe the African. He lied that he would find the thief, retrieve the money and give Abu half. Abu didn’t like the idea of losing 50% of the money, but he was in no position to argue.

  Sudovich finished the conversation.

  “Don’t worry Abu, I will look into this and get back to you.”

  As Sudovich put his phone down, he leaned back into his chair and decided that he would find the thief and take it all.

  He made his plans, then picked up the phone and punched in some new numbers. He waited some moments before his call was answered, and a calm voice sounded in his ear.

  “Hello, directory assistance. Which town please?”

  *****

  The African sat on the edge of his chair and stared at the floor, before he wiped tears from his eyes with a large handkerchief. The tears had stopped flowing now, but the anger still built in his chest.

  He called his young secretary and motioned her into his office, requesting she close the door behind her before she approached his desk.

  Abu rose from his chair and walked around to stand behind her. She felt his large paw like hands clutch her waist, and they stilled her startle as she tried to turn. He held her firm and pushed her head down hard, until it thumped onto the desktop.

  Bent over the desk she was vulnerable to him, and she felt the weight of his hand as it pushed her forehead into the desk top.

  Abu held her there as he fumbled with his trouser belt, then lifted her dress until it lay over her back. As her under garment was torn away from her, it caught the corner of her eye as it landed like discarded waste upon the floor. She whimpered under the pressure of him forcing himself against her, and felt pain as he gained access to her inner sanctum. Her attempts to squirm away from the torture of his violent thrusts were in vain. Her pleas were like drumbeats to the oarsman as he drove into her brutally, until he felt his anger and frustration drain away.

  Finally, he stepped away from her, and she whimpered as she limped to the door and closed it behind her. While Abu sat on the edge of his desk and gazed wearily at the light under garment on the floor at his feet.

  Rape was not new to him, and he knew there was no complaint his secretary could make against
him. Her life would be worth nothing on the street if he chose to put her there, and he had the power to do that.

  He poured whisky, and as he drank he thought of the pain and suffering he would put the thief through if he could get his hands on him. Suddenly, a feeling of desolation enshrouded him as he remembered he’d have to rely on Sudovich for retribution.

  For this only, because he knew he could not rely on him, or trust him to even consider returning his share of the money.

  Abu dropped into his chair, and as he buried his face into his hands he wondered, ‘surely things cannot get any worse than this?’

  Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even hear a distant sound of thunder.