by David Holman
He reached over the bed and poured another shot of scotch into his empty glass. He also hadn’t eaten for days and was now feeling quite weak. There had been several ‘pull yourself together man’ moments in the last few days, but just as there was a promise to himself of doing just that, all of them had died when her face had floated in to push these inclinations aside again.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, the events of the canal going over and over in his mind and remembering her cries to him as she pushed her gun into his hand; it had been like a repeated 45, spinning on a turntable and hanging in the air, playing on his conscience like an burrowing ear worm. The photograph of her daughter lay on the bedside table, but since the incident, the girl’s red Wellington boots and blue smocked-dress had been imprinted on his subconscious. She was the only thing left of her beautiful mother. He thought of the child’s grandparents. How would they be coping with this, trying to protect their granddaughter from every news bulletin, or when out with her, avoiding the newspaper stands in case she should get a glimpse, sparking awkward questions that required reluctant and agonising explanations to why her mother was on television?
As she floated into his thoughts, he heard again her mother’s ghostly voice echoing around the silent room. ‘Go Phillip, get out of here - look after her for me.’
*
The main road from Salisbury Airport was busy with a mixture of civilian and military traffic and from time to time, the taxi containing the three men would be confronted by a strange military transport vehicle known as a Pig.
Inside the low trailer sat a row of green uniformed soldiers, a mixture of bewildered black and white faces staring out into uncertainty for their country.
The taxi driver then took them through what looked to Gable like a ghost town. Driving down the main street, he noticed shops, and houses abandoned as if something bad had happened here. The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror, catching the Englishman’s curiosity. ‘This was one of the so-called protected villages under the Smith government,’ he informed, ‘they set these up to protect villagers from the Terrs, but if want my opinion, I reckon, it was to keep them from getting recruited by ZANLA. Everyone had to wear yellow wristbands, and if you were found without one, god help you.’
Andrew Gable sat in silence, trying to imagine what life had been like in a place like this. Then, as they reached the outskirts, he noticed sections of wire fencing still in place and rising above, on a raised platform, what can only have been a watchtower, instantly reminding him of the images seen on footage of the concentration camps during World War 2. He looked back at the driver in the mirror, ‘So where’s everybody gone to?’
‘A lot of them have moved into the abandoned white farms around here,’ explained the driver. ‘Since the Land Tenure Agreement was abolished, more people have the right to own land. But, after the owners packed up and fled the country, most of them just occupy the farms as illegal squatters.’
Swan cut in. ‘So, what’s being done to get them out?’
The driver gave a chuckle. ‘Absolutely bugger all. No-one sees it as a problem. Then of course, you’ve got your military hierarchy also seizing properties and chucking the owners out.’
Sitting in the front passenger seat, Peter Cunningham just shook his head, thankful at this moment he was a South African, and his country was free from anything like he had just heard.
Arriving into the centre, the taxi driver’s passengers felt like it a normal day in any city. Traffic flowed freely passed the Rhodes Statue on Jameson Avenue Central, and pedestrians walked along the cluttered pavements like worker ants, carrying their bags of groceries. Occasionally, clusters of sightseers would be gathered around landmarks, their tour guide explaining the piece they were admiring. The taxi turned down Second Street.
Stopping across the road from the Meikles Hotel, Alex Swan and Andrew Gable climbed out and removing their jackets, felt the blazing heat of the late morning. They stood, taking in the building with its ornate veranda and row of pillars. The place oozed luxury and for many, if they could afford the extortionate prices when in Salisbury, this was obviously the place of choice to stay.
Peter Cunningham gestured for them to enter the lobby.
Walking inside the hotel, the luxurious decor continued, with a plush reception area, high backed chairs and glass tables. From the ceiling, hung cut crystal chandeliers, the droplets cascading down to resemble an inverted fountain, the glass glimmering like highly-polished diamonds.
Swan had suggested to the others, the first port of call was to check with the hotel staff if a certain guest was staying. It was confirmed there was no-one of that name, but there was a Mr Gareth Myers, who had a South African passport and was in room 12. They were also informed he had handed his key into reception about an hour ago. Where had he gone to?
The three men suggested they find a restaurant for an early lunch and while Swan and Gable were having their meeting at Government House, Cunningham would wait in the hotel for this Mr Myers to return. He had been to Salisbury before, so suggested a good place to eat.
Over lunch, they discussed how they were going to approach Munroe. ‘He knows me quite well,’ said the South African, ‘so, when he sees me, he may have his back up. I suggest we take things slowly.’
Swan wanted to know if Munroe had a connection to Mallinson. He had definitely been on the train at Axminster, so was involved in the Baines case. There was also the incident in London. The meeting with Ramir and his association with Siobhan Hennessy. Swan decided this man knew more about Cascade, and could even be part of it.
With Cunningham awaiting the return of Munroe to the hotel, Swan and Gable had taken a short taxi ride a few blocks to the government offices, where they were now seated outside the office of the Agricultural Minister. Through Swan’s call to London the previous afternoon and the influential mutual backscratching inside the Brigand Club, John Stratton had spoken to the Deputy Foreign Secretary and being a good friend of the Rhodesian minister, this urgent meeting had been arranged.
The door opened to reveal a small African gentleman, wearing a navy three-piece double-breasted suit.
Charles Lakeema shook hands with them and ushered them into his office.
‘It was so good of you to see us in such short notice, Mr Lakema,’ thanked Swan.
Lakeema smiled. ‘Not at all, Mr Swan. Nigel Millard is an old friend, and he has been a great help to my country during this transition period.’ He picked up a jug of water and poured it into three glasses on his desk. ‘Now what can I do for you that is so urgent for the British Ministry of Defence, gentlemen?’
Swan and Gable had prepared themselves for what they would tell and not tell this man, unfortunately in order to get the information they had come for, they would have to lie. ‘We are working on a case,’ said Swan, ‘which has connections to someone in your country. We need to find him as he could be a key witness to a murder in London last week, the murder of an IRA terrorist.’
Lakeema nodded. He was familiar with the incident from the newspapers. ‘Do you have a name for this man, Mr Swan?’
‘His name is Gifford, Toby Gifford. He apparently owns a farm somewhere in the country. We were hoping that you may have him on your Land register of active farmsteads, especially the white farms. He inherited it, well I suppose that’s not quite the word I was looking for, he took it over from his parents who were killed by guerrillas in 1976.’
Lakeema’s mouth gaped. ‘My God. What a tragedy. I cannot recall this myself, but I’m sure this outrage would have been recorded by the Smith government. I will ask my secretary to locate the information you need.’
While Lakeema and Swan had been in conversation, Gable had looked around the walls of the office, pictures of farm workers in fields, diamonds being excavated from mines and various scenes of Rhodesia hung on them. This included a dramatic shot of the Victoria Falls and next to it was a picture of a different dam from the one seen in Cunningham’
s office in Pretoria. The dam looked older, and somehow a little frail.
‘Excuse me Mr Lakema,’ Gable pointed to it, ‘is that the Kariba Dam?’
‘Yes, Mr Gable,’ nodded Lakeema, ‘it is the Kariba Dam. It is one of our vital assets, it supplies power to both Zimbabwe and Zambia.’
Gable noted the minister referred to his own country in the future adopted name. ‘Is that a fact? Then I can imagine, if this dam collapsed, it could be quite significant?’
Lakeema nodded. ‘Indeed, it could be Mr Gable. On one side is Lake Kariba, the largest man-made lake in the world, while on the other side of the dam, lies the great Zambezi valley which flows into Mozambique, where there is another dam, the Cahora Bassa. We have recently been doing a feasibility study on it. If the Kariba Dam should fail, there would be a torrent which would also destroy this dam further down river, sending hundreds of tons of water downstream and wiping out towns and cities, killing thousands of people. It would not just only be an economic and ecological disaster for Mozambique, but the back floods into the smaller rivers could bring disaster to the whole of Southern Africa. Believe me gentlemen, it is a concept of which I am most concerned with and we monitor with the highest of interest.’
Gable glanced over at Swan. It was just as Cunningham had predicted. If this was the target, it was imperative they find out the location of Gifford’s farm.
The three men were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened to reveal a tall short white-haired man in a grey suit. His piercing blue eyes instantly darted to the two SID officers, then fell on the minister.
‘Excuse me, minister, I just came to inform you that we may need to change the route of one of your schedules tomorrow morning.’
Lakeema introduced the man to the others. ‘Mr Wyatt, this is Mr Swan and Mr Gable from the British Ministry of Defence in London. They are hoping we can find a person of interest to them.’
Damien Wyatt studied them. ‘Nice to meet you, gentleman,’ he said in his South African brogue, ‘perhaps I can be some assistance in this matter. Who is it exactly you are looking for?’
As Swan explained, Gable noted the facial expressions of the Head of Internal Security.
Wyatt then nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on them. ‘When you’ve finished with the minister, perhaps you can come to my office and I’ll see what I can do?’
Swan carefully watched Wyatt as he turned on his heel and left the room. He then raised an eyebrow at Gable. So this was Damien Wyatt.
Lakeema ended their meeting with a promise to get his secretary to find the farm. He called for her to take them to Wyatt’s office. As they walked behind her, the Englishmen remained silent. Before meeting him and following what Cunningham had said, both had had their own thoughts about the man they were being taken to.
In the office of the Head of Internal Security, Wyatt had already pulled two chairs to his desk. On a side table was a decanter full of scotch of which he offered a glass to the men. Taking their whisky, Swan was now thankful their South African colleague had chosen to stay and see if Munroe showed up at the hotel.
Wyatt was first to speak. ‘I know what you’re thinking gentlemen. What is a white face still doing working for a black majority government? Well. I’ll tell you. It is plain and simple. This country is going through the biggest change since 1965, and despite what you see on your BBC news, there are still a lot of white people here. It is their home, it’s also my adopted home. Being part of this new government helps me recognise how important this country is to me.’
Looking at this man and now hearing his smug attitude, Swan could clearly see the reasons why Cunningham had shown such dislike for him. He had come across men like this before, devious, distrustful and power hungry. The services still had plenty of them.
Wyatt took a sip of whisky and leant back in his chair. ‘So, what do you intend to do, once we track down this man you’re looking for?’
Swan could tell when he was being tested. ‘We intend to ask him some questions, perhaps get a statement then return to London.’
Wyatt was suddenly curious. Swan was clever. It was as if he knew he was being cross-examined. He had to check this man out. There was suddenly something about all this that didn’t meet the eye. Once these men left his office, he would be finding some way to find out more about them.
Lakeema’s secretary returned. She breezed in and stood before Swan. ‘I have searched our Land Registry files, Mr Swan and there does not seem to be anyone by the name of Gifford.
Are you sure, sir, this is the name of the man you are looking for?’
Swan looked over at Gable. ‘We are quite sure, madam, most peculiar he cannot be found in any of your records.’ He turned to Gable. ‘Well, Andrew, I think we should now direct our inquiries elsewhere.’
They thanked the secretary for her help and shook Wyatt’s hand.
Wyatt called them back. ‘In case something comes up Mr Swan, where can I locate you?’
Swan informed him he would be staying for one night only at The Ambassador and Wyatt noted this as they left his office.
Outside the building, they waited for a taxi. As Gable observed a line of young schoolgirls entering the convent school next door, Swan was deep in thought as to why the Land Registry suddenly had no records for Gifford’s farm. Meeting Wyatt had brought a face to the name and something now niggled him. He suddenly recalled the MI5 transcript. A call had been made to these offices. Could Wyatt be involved? Whoever it was who Mallinson had contacted, were obviously able to easily remove a file.
The taxi arrived and inside the vehicle, Swan took one more glance at the tall white clock tower as the car pulled away into the traffic and headed down Fourth Street back to the Meikles Hotel.
Cunningham acknowledged the two men as they filed into the lobby and Swan saw he wasn’t alone. Despite the cropped head and the growing facial hair, he still easily recognised the man sitting beside him.
20
Swan and Gable pulled up stools to sit with them. ‘Mr Munroe, I presume,’ said Swan sarcastically.
‘Or is it, Mr Myers?’ quipped Gable, referring to the alias used to enter the country. The South African looked them up and down. ‘And you two are the men from the MOD in London, I presume? He grinned as he returned the sarcasm displayed by the Englishmen.
Swan turned to Cunningham. ‘We’ve just had a nice conversation with an old friend of yours, Peter.’
Cunningham didn’t need to ask who he had meant by this. He shifted in his seat. ‘I better order you some drinks, gentlemen.’ He was insistent, pushing his empty glass across the bar.
‘Mr Munroe, has a little story to tell you about your missing aeroplane.’
‘So, what do you know about it?’ Swan enquired.’
Munroe turned to the Englishmen. ‘Everything, Mr Swan. Considering I was part of the team helped to steal it, man.’
Swan did a double take. This was completely unexpected. ‘Well, if you’re buying, Mr Monroe, then I think I’ll have a large scotch on the rocks.’
While the drinks were being prepared, he began with his explanation.
‘There were six of us. One of us had got a job as a truck driver for the haulage firm responsible for the towing, and two of us rode as outriders in police uniform on the motorcycles. We went into the factory where the Buccaneer was waiting to be hooked up then just took it out of the gates.’
The drinks were served. Gable had ordered a local beer.
Swan took his scotch. ‘So where do you come in?’
Munroe grabbed his drink. ‘I was waiting at our rendezvous point in a farm which was hired.’
Swan’s eyes ignited. ‘This wouldn’t happen to be Seldale Farm by any chance, just past the village of North Clave?’
Munroe nodded, recognising the name. ‘Yes, it was as a matter of fact. How do you know?’
‘I was there last week. I saw the big hangar. Seems I was right to suspect the Buccaneer was taken inside it. I suppose the
n you wrapped it in the oilskin covering I found on a pallet, ready for shipping?’
Monroe gaped. ‘Jesus, Mr Swan. Are you sure you weren’t there watching us? That’s exactly what we did.’ ‘
‘And I suppose you also disguised it as a big crane?’ Gable added, taking a sip of his beer.
Monroe was awestruck by the accuracy to the detail. ‘You guys are good. Yes, that’s right Mr Gable. We added a steel frame which we had made earlier and placed it around the plane, covered the whole lot over with a tarpaulin and tied it all down so no one could see underneath. Then, in the evening, after transferring the cab to that of another firm, we drove it to the docks, loaded it on to the ship, and off it went.’
Swan was speechless. How did they manage to get passed the military roadblocks that had been set up at the time?
Gable cut in. ‘So, it was put on the Minerva, the freighter owned by Mallinson Shipping?
‘That’s right, Mr Gable. After a bit of a tussle with the dock handlers, we took over with the loading.’
Swan ordered some more drinks. ‘Now we need to talk about your job in Devon. Tell us what happened on the train.’