by David Holman
Monroe explained he had been sent to meet with Baines who was to pass him a package. ‘It was supposed to be a straight forward handover. I got on at Salisbury and found Baines in the compartment. We talked for a while, and I was to get off at Axminster with the envelope. He started arguing with me, saying he wasn’t getting paid enough for this.’
Swan nodded. ‘Then what happened?’
Munroe took a sip of his whisky. ‘I said to him this wasn’t anything I could do. I was just a messenger boy. His attitude changed. He then told me to tell Mallinson he had changed his mind. I took hold of the briefcase and he pushed me into the seat. We struggled and I managed to kick him back. This also made me miss my stop, but as you guys probably know already, the train was stopped a few miles passed the station anyway and reversed back.
Gable suddenly recalled what the pathologist had said. ‘Did you kick him in the chest? There was a heavy bruise on his sternum.’
Munroe paused. ‘I think so. I know he fell on the floor. Anyway, I opened the case, and emptied it until I found the envelope. He just sat there and broke down, said he couldn’t be responsible for what would happen, then before I could get to him, he got back up, and the crazy fool opened the door and jumped. I read in the newspaper he had been found in a river.’
Swan nodded. ‘That’s correct, he was. So, you’re telling me you didn’t throw him off the train?’
Monroe looked Swan in the eye. ‘I didn’t kill him, Mr Swan. I can swear to you on that.’ Swan shrugged. ‘Okay, let’s run with this for now. What happened after you were picked up in Axminster?’
‘I went to the house of the man who had hired my services and handed over the envelope.’
‘The man who hired you, was Henry Mallinson himself, wasn’t it?’
Munroe raised a brow. These men from London were certainly a force to be reckoned with, he decided. ‘That’s right, Mr Swan.’
Swan continued with his questions. ‘Do you know what the envelope contained?’
‘No idea, I was just paid to collect it.’ He was suddenly curious. ‘What was in it?’ Swan sat back in his chair. ‘Considering how cooperative you’ve been, I can tell you, what you collected was two phials of an experimental biotoxin called LXR-435, which if used, could wipe out all the fertile land of Southern Africa.’
Monroe’s face sank. ‘Jesus, no wonder Mallinson was so cagey when I asked him.’
Swan nodded. ‘Yes, and the Buccaneer you helped to steal, could be being used to deliver it.’
Monroe stayed silent as Swan continued.
‘You see, Mr Munroe, Mr Cunningham is on the trail of two stolen missiles. It is our belief, this biotoxin known as Locust Rain, is going to be loaded into them and fired at a target, which we suspect now to be the Kariba Dam. Locust Rain was designed to function in flowing water and like the Agent Orange used in Vietnam, breaks down the soil around the rivers causing infertility. In five years, if this land is not just devastated by the catastrophic floods from breaching the dam, it could be on its way to becoming another Sahara.’
Monroe fumbled with his cigarette packet. ‘Christ, if I knew this was the bastard’s plan, I would never have worked for him. South Africa is my home, man. There’s no bloody way I would knowingly get involved in destroying it.’
Swan wasn’t finished yet. There was the other business, the business SID had come out here for. ‘Now, is there any chance you can tell us what you are intending to do with this Semtex you were due to receive from Sahid Ramir?’
Munroe raised a brow. These men knew everything. For the next ten minutes, Swan, Gable and Cunningham listened as he explained he had been hired to kill Kuwani by blowing up his car. ‘That was the plan. But, to be honest, after what happened to Siobhan, I can’t bring myself to carry on with all this.’
Swan was now puzzled. ‘So, what are you doing here?’
‘Thought I’ll lie low for a bit, man, until the heat is off from what happened with Baines and Siobhan.’ He gestured at Cunningham. ‘By now, MI6 will probably have a file on me as big as the one in your office, Peter. I was going to call up on an old Selous Scout mate of mine who lives not far from here and stay with him for a while. Mallinson will most probably put out a contract on me for not doing the job. He would realise I could expose him and his plans. Another reason for staying here. I don’t exactly want to be jogging along the High-Level Road in Cape Town and have some motorcyclist hitman ride by and pop me.’
Swan then probed him about the girl, informing him of a lot more details than he had expected to be read in the papers. ‘I’m sorry. She was found in the canal with three bullet wounds, one in the leg, one in the back, the other just under her right ear. If she was alive when she fell into the water, she would have been weakened by her injuries. She was already dead when the police pulled her out.’
Munroe finally felt the tears well his eyes. Since it happened, he had been in a void of non-emotion, unable to cry. Hearing more about what happened, suddenly brought it all back. It had finally taken toll on him. ‘Poor Siobhan. It’s all my fault. I dragged her with me to London.’
He looked Swan in the eye. ‘So, who did it, who were those guys who chased us?’
‘MI5 think they were IRA’, announced Gable. ‘Men belonging to Jimmy Kerrigan, a known brigade commander operating out of Londonderry.’
Munroe stared across the room. He was suddenly back in the pub toilets where he went to find Siobhan Hennessy. He also didn’t want these men to know how much he knew. ‘Kerrigan,’ he said, feigning surprise at the name. ‘Yes, I remember Siobhan talking about him. So, that’s why there was a counter-surveillance team in the pub, watching us.’ Monroe also informed about the two men who had followed them to London, Kerrigan’s watchers.
Swan studied the man, he had seen it before, the silence, the determined look on a face full of anguish, about to serve the cold dish of revenge. She had been more to him than just a business colleague. This man loved her. ‘I think we should have another drink,’ he suggested.
Later in the evening, at a restaurant opposite the Ambassador Hotel, Swan and Gable had listened more about the exploits of the South African.
Monroe had sat like an old soldier, reciting his life, first when in the Recces, then the jobs he had done as a soldier of fortune. He informed them of his time in Angola and how he found himself face to face with crack Soviet, Chinese and Cuban troops.
The waiter approached and they decided to have some biltong accompanied by some cornbread. The conversation then moved to trying to locate the farm where a Buccaneer strike aircraft sat loaded with two AS-30 missiles, their warheads containing the Locust Rain.
Swan was also concerned about the farm not being found on the Land Registry. He was aware, one of the first things requested by the interim government was all farmsteads in the country had to be listed. The previous white ownership of land was now in question. He recalled what the taxi driver had said. The Land Tenure Act in place since 1965, had been abolished. According to the current agreement, the country would see black majority rule within two years which meant anyone would have the right to own land.
‘So how come this farm is not listed?’ Monroe asked.
‘We suspect it’s been taken off by someone at Government House. Mallinson has someone on the inside.’ Gable explained the recorded MI5 transcripts and the traces of the calls.
Munroe sniggered. ‘Jesus, you Brits don’t leave anything to chance, do you man? How long have you known about Mallinson?’
Gable leant forward. ‘Actually, it was only after I checked the shipping records, we decided he could be involved. There was also the book in Baines’s briefcase.’ He explained about the handwriting. ‘It was there all the time, we just didn’t see it until becoming familiar with the name.’
Swan leaned forward. ‘The sooner we can find this farm, we can stop Gifford, then go back to arrest Mallinson at his Buckinghamshire home.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem as long as Lance
is not there to whisk him away,’ said Munroe.
Swan gave him a puzzling stare. ‘Lance?’
‘His poor driver, Alex. Mallinson doesn’t drive because he has epilepsy.’
Cunningham lit a cigarette. ‘So, what are you going to do about this mole in the Government office?’
Swan shook his head. ‘Not sure about that. Maybe, your former boss, Damien Wyatt could help. As you know, we bumped into him this morning. We could inform him of what’s about to happen? Maybe he could even assist us in some way?’
Cunningham suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth and as the meal arrived, had lost his appetite. ‘What makes you think he could be trusted, Alex?’
‘He seemed reasonable enough to help us.’ Swan then caught a quick glance between the NIS agent and the mercenary. It was enough to know there was some hidden agenda, ‘are you acquainted with Damien Wyatt, Mr Monroe?’
Monroe shook his head. ‘I’ve heard of him, but never had any dealings with the man.’
Swan remained silent. There was something else between these two, he was sure of it. How convenient it was they should return to the hotel after visiting Government House, to find Cunningham and Monroe having a drink together. He decided he would bring it up with Gable back in their hotel.
After another cup of South African strong coffee, the four men made their way to the exit of the restaurant and Cunningham went to pay the bill. When he returned, Gable made a quip to him about how big the expenses budget of the South African National Intelligence Service was, having now payed for all their meals and for their accommodation these last few days.
Outside, it was raining, and Swan led to cross the road. Stepping out, he suddenly found himself caught in the headlights of a big black saloon. It accelerated towards him and although he was no longer dead centre of the beam, the right side struck him, propelling him off his feet and onto the black road like an ice skater falling after performing a pirouette.
The others rushed towards him. Andrew Gable getting to him first, saw his chief was unconscious. Monroe looked down the road to see the red lights disappear down a side street.
This was no accident, the driver’s intentions had been deliberate, a hit and run. He strode over to the other two men crouched in front of the still figure of Alex Swan.
Swan was lying face down, arms and legs splayed as the beating rain splashed onto his jacket.
Cunningham reached under the collar to touch his neck for a pulse. ‘He’s alive!’ He got up and leaving the others with Swan, ran back inside the restaurant to call for an ambulance.
Gable kept with his colleague. Suddenly, he heard a murmur. Swan had regained consciousness. His arms started to move. ‘Don’t move, Alex, an ambulance is on its way.’
Swan opened his eyes to see he was lying on the road.
A small crowd had gathered, and traffic had been stopped. A policeman was now walking towards them. Gable acknowledged him and explained what had happened. The officer brushed his hand through his thick black hair, took out his notebook and wrote down the details.
Cunningham returned to confirm the ambulance would arrive soon. Monroe also reappeared. He had had no luck in tracking the car further than when he had seen it turn the corner.
Gable saw that Swan was bleeding, and retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket, placed it over the large seeping gash in his forehead as in the distance, the shrill of sirens pierced the gloomy night. ‘The ambulance is coming, Alex.’
A short while later, after patching Swan’s wound, the crew of the ambulance carefully lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him inside the vehicle. Gable also climbed in to accompany him.
Outside the vehicle, Cunningham confirmed with the driver, Swan was being taken to the Andrew Fleming Hospital and quickly informed Gable he would see him there.
As the rear doors were closed and the ambulance sped away with the siren blasting, Cunningham turned to Monroe. ‘Who was it, I wonder?’
Monroe spat onto the road. ‘I think we both know who it was, don’t we Peter?’
They looked at each other for a few moments, and as if they suddenly had both become telepathic, nodded in agreement to one another.
21
Andrew Gable looked around the busy corridor of one of the cleanest hospitals he had ever seen.
He checked the clock on the wall behind the nurses’ station, it was two and a half hours since Alex Swan had been rushed into the Casualty department of the recently-built Andrew Fletcher Hospital and into the treatment room.
On arrival, Gable had used the payphone to notify Swan’s wife of the incident, reassuring her that he was in the best of care. He had also telephoned his wife, informing Sandra of what had happened.
Occasionally, as he sat patiently waiting, medical staff emerged from the room, but with only the tell-tale eye contact expressing the patient was still being treated, there was no further news. Sitting here, one thing he did notice was the variety of both black and white faces waiting to be seen. Among them were people with head gashes, leg and arm injuries and a few with what were obviously internal complaints. How much longer would he have to wait for just the inkling of news his chief was going to be okay? He began to think of the night’s events. What was it that Swan was going to tell him about Munroe, just before he had stepped into the road?
Finally, after almost a four hour wait, a white-coated official appeared from the treatment room and approached Gable. ‘Mr Gable, I’m Doctor Cornwell. Looks like your friend is going to be okay. He has a broken collar bone, two broken ribs and is being treated for concussion. We’ll have to keep him here for a while, but give us another half an hour and you may see him.’
Gable let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He watched Cornwell walk down the corridor, probably for a well-earned cup of coffee. Just over half an hour later, Gable walked alongside the bed trolley transporting Alex Swan to a ward. The patient was awake with his right arm strapped into a sling and had been heavily sedated for pain. Gable also noticed the bruising on the side of his face, where he had hit the ground after being knocked down by the mystery car. He informed him he had phoned Janet.
‘That’s all I need,’ hailed Swan, his hazel eyes widening. She’ll take one look at me and tell me enough is enough with the trips out in the field, mark my words, Andrew.’
Gable laughed. Yes, if he knew Janet, that is exactly what she would say. After a short walk across to the west wing of the hospital, they arrived at the ward and Gable stepped aside to allow the porters to carefully help Swan to the bed.
Once he was settled, Gable found a big buff leather chair which he pulled close. The nurse handed him a canvas bag containing Swan’s clothes.
Gable opened the locker beside the bed and pushed them inside.
Swan was now rested enough to talk. ‘I don’t look too good, do I Andrew?’
Gable nodded. ‘Could’ve been a lot worse though, Alex.
Swan nodded. ‘Did you manage to see who it was? I think it was deliberate. As I recall, the driver had plenty of time if not to stop, but slow down enough for me to avoid him. Yes, I would say that he was out to get me.’
Gable thought this over. ‘Any ideas who it was?’
Swan smiled, he already had his suspicions. ‘I have a rough idea, Andrew.’
Gable asked him again. ‘Who was it, Alex?’
‘Someone who knew what we were after.’
Gable’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean, Damien Wyatt?’
‘Let’s just see how long it takes him to realise I’m still alive? Tell you what, it would be interesting if you could ask the medical staff if anyone has been in contact to enquire about me.’
Gable agreed to this plan. ‘And what if it was Wyatt?’
‘Whoever, it was, unless the vehicle can be located and checked for fingerprints, then I’m afraid we’re at a bit of a stalemate, Andrew.’
Gable was beginning to think their arrival in this country and not being able to locate the farm and
the airstrip was suddenly too much of a coincidence. He looked at his watch, remembering something, ‘while you were still being treated, I phoned the hotel and updated Cunningham.’ He then gave out a big yawn.
‘You look worn out, Andrew. You’ve been up all night. Why don’t you get back to the hotel and get your head down for a while?’
Swan looked around the ward. There were only three other patients, ‘I’m in the best of care here, I can assure you.’
Gable agreed. The waiting was over. There was now nothing more he could do. He had also arranged to meet up with Cunningham and Munroe at lunchtime. He rose from the chair. ‘Yes, you’re right, Alex, I’ll leave you in the hands of these pretty nurses and go and get my head down for a couple of hours.’ As he went to leave, he suddenly remembered something. ‘By the way. What was it you wanted to tell me about Cunningham and Munroe?’
‘Only that I think we’re being led up the garden path, Andrew. I think Munroe is in the employ of the South African National Intelligence Service and has been all along.’
Gable’s eyes widened. ‘What, even since the Buccaneer heist?’
Swan nodded. ‘No, I think he was working for Mallinson then, but I think somewhere along the line, he decided to switch sides.’
‘So, what makes you suspect all this?’
‘I thought it too much of a coincidence, we happened to walk in to the Meikles and find him at the bar chatting with Cunningham, like they were old friends. Then, there were all the other things mentioned over dinner which got me thinking, Munroe could be their inside man. What he said about a large file on him in Cunningham’s office, for instance. As if he already knew.’
Gable nodded. ‘If this is the case, then what do we do?’
Swan shifted in the bed to be more comfortable. ‘We play along with it.’ He gestured to his disabled arm. ‘I don’t think I can be much help to you in the field at the moment, so, I guess it’s now down to you three to find Gifford, find this airstrip and stop this madness before it’s too late.’