'You watch your mouth, you yellow prick,' answered Stas, thrusting his face aggressively close to the colonel.
Chang cuffed the Ukrainian across his face and sergeant Feng immediately drew his pistol and pointed it at Stas.
'You stupid moron,' continued the colonel. 'Are you deliberately trying to destroy this business? I'm warning you, if you continue missing meetings and coming to the embassy then you will fuck it all up. Well and truly.'
Stas smirked. 'Well your warning has come a little late, colonel,' he said. 'I'm here to tell you that the business is already well and truly fucked.'
Chang paused his tirade. 'What do you mean?'
'There is no more business,' continued Stas. 'There is no more anything. We were attacked two days ago. Everyone is dead. Yarik, Igor, all of the guards. The buildings have been blown up, the cars shot to shit. They beheaded Viktor. It was a fucking blood bath.'
Jin Chang went pale. His face immediately glazed over with a thin sheen of cold sweat. 'Who attacked? How many?'
Stas looked shifty, his eyes casting around the room as he thought. 'I'm not sure,' he said. 'Lots. Maybe fifty people. Maybe more.'
'Fifty?' Asked the colonel. 'That many?'
'Maybe more. They had artillery and machine guns. Hi Tech stuff. We didn't stand a chance. Maybe even armoured vehicles.'
'Maybe armoured vehicles,' scoffed the colonel. 'You can't miss armoured vehicles. Either they had them or they didn't.'
'They did,' said Stas. 'A few of them.'
Chang turned and faced out of the window, not to look at the view of the garden but merely to gather himself. To think. His brain was close to shutting down at the immensity of the Ukrainian's news. His entire future was hanging in the balance.
'Who could it be?' He asked. 'Who would dare?' He turned back to face the two men. 'Who cuts off heads as a warning?'
'Mexicans,' offered sergeant Feng. 'Muslims.'
'Mexicans,' said Chang. 'What are you, fucking simple? Might be Muslims though. Shit, that's all that we need. Bloody religious nutters. Could be another Triad. Could be the Russians - they hate the Ukrainians. Mind you, could be any of the eastern block gangs, they all have the muscle and the will.'
'The Nigerians?' Suggested Stas.
'Not their style,' answered Chang. 'They're more into the con than full on military action.'
'South Africans?' Ventured sergeant Feng. 'The older crowd. Ex-military.'
The colonel rubbed his eyes. 'I hope not. I truly do. But that makes sense. It would explain the weapons, the armor. The ferocity of the attack. Ex SA military, right wing fanatics muscling into the rhino trade. This is not good. Not good at all. I'm going to have to tell Tai Zeng and he is not going to be happy.'
'There is one more thing,' said Stas as he tried to hide the look of satisfaction on his face. 'I heard them mention you. They said that they were coming for you. Here, in Harare.'
Jin Chang felt a tremor of fear ripple through him. 'Sergeant,' he barked. 'I want the men on full alert. Rotate in eight-hour shifts, issue extra ammunition. Now.'
The two men left the room and the colonel sat down behind his desk. He was so far out of his comfort zone that he was almost in a different dimension. He had always dealt from a position of strength, one of nature's natural bullies. And now he had an unknown enemy with a force that, by all accounts, exceeded his.
And they cut people's heads off.
Waves of nausea surged through him as the full consequence of what he had just been told struck home.
Viktor's operation was no more. That meant, for the foreseeable future, eighty percent of his income had ceased. Without that income he could ill afford to pay the bribes that he needed, to keep the rest of his businesses going. So, the harsh reality was that, to all intents and purposes, his reign of power was over.
No more Yi Deng Bo or chief of the first rank. And with no funds coming in to pay his special force soldiers they would most certainly stick to the letter of martial law. They would obey him as a colonel but no longer as an employer.
He did have savings. In fact he had a vast fortune in uncut diamonds and in cash. American dollars. But he had no intention of spending any of it. It was time to call it quits. Time to step away from the table and cash in his winnings.
Now he just had to work out how to do it and stay alive at the same time.
Then the phone rang. Chang stared at it for a long while, willing it to stop. He simply felt like he didn't have the strength to deal with anything else.
Eventually he picked it up.
It was Roddy the Greek. He told the colonel about the white man and the Zulu.
The call was short and to the point and when it was over, colonel Chang was even more puzzled than he had been before.
'Who are these two?' He asked himself. 'Are they assassins? A recce for the main force?'
Chang went to his liquor cabinet and helped himself to a large tumbler of Johnny Walker Blue Label. No water, no ice. He needed to feel the burn as the alcohol coursed down his throat. He needed it to burn his mind clear.
And he needed a game plan. It was time to call in some favors. Or at least one favor. He picked up his phone and dialed a cell number. He was one of the very few people who had access to that specific number. In fact, not even the woman's husband knew it.
It rang a few times and then it was answered. As was her habit she said nothing. Simply switching the phone on and waiting, the only sound, her breathing.
So Chang spoke first, greeting her in the manner that she preferred, even though, strictly speaking, the form of address was incorrect.
'Good evening, Madam President,' he said.
'Colonel,' she answered.
Chang took a deep breath. This woman was very difficult to deal with, he reminded himself. She drove a hard bargain, she gave nothing away, she was utterly ruthless, completely amoral and totally untrustworthy. But she owed colonel Chang.
After the United Kingdom had frozen all of Mugabe's overseas assets and accounts and banned him and Grace from entering the country, Tai Zeng had advised colonel Chang to approach missus Mugabe with a view to setting up a pipeline. Through this she could still move money out of Zimbabwe and into private accounts set up under dummy corporations, totally untraceable back to either herself or her husband.
She had agreed, with one major proviso - her husband was not to know about it.
And so, over the last few years, Chang had helped Grace Mugabe, via the transportation of uncut diamonds, rhino horn, ivory and drugs, to build up a retirement fund. She currently controlled five accounts in various Hong Kong banks. The total sum of all accounts combined was a little under One Billion United States Dollars.
The forty four year old ex-secretary was one of Africa's wealthiest people. In fact she was one of the wealthiest women in the entire world.
And a large part of her wealth was due to Chang's advice. So the colonel told her his problem and asked for her help.
There was along pause before she answered. Then finally.
'If something happened to you, colonel,' she said. 'It would prove to be…inconvenient. I will take steps.'
She disconnected the call without saying goodbye.
Chang poured himself another whisky. He wasn't sure what Grace Mugabe would do but he was sure of one thing, she would not want her golden pipeline to disappear, so she would be doing something.
Chapter 26
Garrett and Petrus had waited until darkness before they ventured out from the hotel. Both of them wore long khaki cotton dustcoats. Long riders.
The coats were thin enough for the hot weather and long enough to conceal their FN assault rifles that they had slung from their shoulders, nestled in under their arms.
They drove the pick up to the outskirts of the suburb of Borrowdale and then proceeded on foot towards Chang's residence, ostensibly for reconnaissance but also willing to take advantage of any targets of opportunity. In other words, if they saw colonel Chang the
y were, most likely, going to shoot him.
Garrett had picked up a map at a local gas station. It was old and out of date but it got them into the general area and, after a couple of wrong turns, they found the colonels house.
It was a mansion. Built in a Southern Antebellum style with a sweeping in-out driveway and a landscaped garden it was at once both ostentatious and breath taking.
The two friends picked a house on the opposite side of the road and three down from the colonel. It seemed to be uninhabited at the moment, although the garden was still being maintained, so it was likely that the owners were simply on holiday.
There was a huge mango tree in the front yard, leafy and large boughed. Garrett and Petrus shinned up into the top part of the tree and Garrett pulled out a small pair of binoculars to check out their target. He scanned slowly form left to right.
'Eight guards,' he said. 'All very visible. Definitely Flying Tiger Special Forces. Carrying the QBZ-95 rifle. Bullpup, 5.8x42mm rounds. Sidearms. No grenades.
After another ten minutes he turned to Petrus. 'There's something wrong here,' he said as he passed the binoculars over to his friend. 'Check out the top floor windows on the right.'
Petrus did so.
'What do you see?' Asked Garrett.
'Looks like people. Hard to tell. Shapes.'
'How many?'
'Not sure,' answered Petrus. 'Two rooms. Maybe eight or ten people in each room. They look crowded.'
'I think that it's the rest of his Special Forces guys. He's billeting them in his house.'
'That's unusual,' remarked Petrus.
'Unheard of,' said Garrett.
'So why is he doing it?'
Garrett thought for a moment. 'He knows that we're coming for him,' he said. 'Someone ratted us out.'
'Roddy the Greek,' said Petrus.
'Not necessarily,' disagreed Garrett. 'Could have been someone from Beit Bridge. An informer from South Africa. Who knows? The upshot is, there are a shitload of Flying Tigers in there, between thirty and forty. And they're ready for us.'
'So, what do we do now?' Asked Petrus.
'These guys are good,' said Garrett. 'China have the biggest army in the world so they get a lot of choice. These dudes are the best of the best chosen from a population of almost half the world.'
'Are they as good as us?'
Garrett thought for a while. It was a serious question and now was not the time for false modesty. Now was the time for truth. 'No,' he answered. 'They aren't. But there are over thirty of them. So, I would say that we are reasonably outnumbered. A frontal attack would be suicide. We have to think this one through.'
'So think,' said Petrus.
Garret grinned. 'I'll do so,' and he lifted the binoculars back up to continue his surveillance.
After ten minutes he put the binoculars back in his coat pocket.
'Come on,' he said to Petrus. 'We need to take a closer look.'
The two of them skirted colonel Chang's house, cutting through his neighbors' residences and climbing any convenient trees to gain a different sightline. As usual they both moved with animal like stealth, merging with the shadows. At one with the darkness.
After they had finished a full circuit Garrett patted Petrus on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow. They snuck back to their vehicle, firstly placing their FN's back into the hidden compartment and then getting in. They did not speak until they were actually inside.
'So,' said Petrus. 'You got any semblance of a plan?'
Garrett nodded. 'I have. But it's a bit of a Hail Mary pass. We can't take him in his house. Even if we get in the odds will be so far against us that we would be pretty certain of not getting out. I reckon that we have more of a chance if we can move him. Or at least, get him to move himself. Now, the only way tat we can do that is to make him feel less than safe where he is. I say that we lay a bunch of C4 shaped charges on his wall, blow a few holes in them. If we lay them correctly the blast will all go inwards so there's little chance of collateral damage to the neighbors. Then we fire a round or two of the superbazooka, maybe we even hit him, who knows, then we run like hell. My feeling is that he will move to a safer haven. One with fewer holes in the wall and fewer bomb damaged rooms. Then we either try to get him when he's on the move or we simply reassess the situation and try again.'
'It's workable,' admitted Petrus.
'Good,' agreed Garrett. 'So. Let's go back to the hotel. Get a feed and maybe a couple of hours sleep. Come back and begin at two or three in the morning.'
Petrus nodded and Garrett started up the pick up and pulled into the road, switching on the headlamps as he did so. He turned right and then left into Borrowdale road and drove past the racecourse, heading down the long straight road towards the town center.
Petrus noticed it first and pointed ahead. 'What's that?' He asked. 'Some sort of road block?'
Garrett peered into the darkness. It appeared to be a hastily thrown up blockade. Two vehicles parked across the road and a single traffic cone.
'Cops?' Questioned Petrus.
'I don't think so,' answered Garrett as he slowed down. 'Looks like military jeeps. Army.'
'I don't like it,' said Petrus. 'Turn off.'
'Can't,' said Garrett. 'No turnings and if we stop and reverse, it'll look suspicious. Just be calm. I'm sure that it's nothing. We stop, tell them that we're tourists and go on our way.'
'Okay,' agreed Petrus. 'Let's do it.'
Garrett pulled to a stop at the traffic cone and wound his window down.
One of the soldiers walked over, his AK slung over his shoulder, his face a mask of indifference and boredom. Until he looked into the cab. Then he sprang back, almost tripping over his own feet, whipped his AK into a firing position and shouted.
'It's them. The white man and the Zulu.'
Two more soldiers sprinted over, one of them a captain, pointing their rifles. Another two stood in front of the jeeps, also holding their rifles ready.
'Get out,' shouted the captain. 'Hands above your heads and get out. Now!'
'Is this when we tell them that we're tourists?' Asked Petrus under his breath.
'No,' said Garrett. 'This is where we get rid of them and get the hell out of Dodge.'
They both kicked open their doors at the same time, slamming them open as they jumped from the cab.
Garrett grabbed the soldier's rifle and pushed it up and away from him, at the same time shattering his knee with a front snap kick. Then he pulled the rifle back towards himself, dragging the soldier into a savage head butt that crushed his nose and knocked him instantly unconscious.
The captain pulled off a shot and the bullet whipped past Garrett. Close enough to pick at his hair. Garrett ripped his machete from its shoulder holster and swung hard. The razor sharp blade connected with his assailant's forearm, biting deep. He dropped the rifle and Garrett snatched it up and clubbed him with the butt until he lay still.
He looked up to see Petrus standing above the prostrate body of the last soldier. The other two lay in pools of blood on the road. Petrus had simply stabbed them all with his assegai. Three savage blows. Three deaths.
'You had to kill them?' asked Garrett.
'We're not fishing here,' answered Petrus. 'This is not a catch and release hobby, Isosha. It's life or death. You know that.'
Garrett nodded. 'True. Let's move it. We need to find a place to lay low for a few hours. Can't go back to the hotel. The military and probably the cops, are looking for us.'
'What about the racecourse?' asked Petrus. 'We can hole up there.'
They got back into the pick up, did a J-turn and drove back to the racecourse, driving around it until they found a parking area that was hidden from the road.
Garrett retrieved their weapons from the concealed compartment and he started working on the C4 charges. He opened eight of the packs and worked them like dough, rolling and kneading until they softened enough to be able to form into shapes. He made three equal cone
shaped charges. Into each charge he pushed a pencil detonator.
He passed two to Petrus. 'Here,' he said. 'Place one against the back wall, then do the same with the other against the right hand wall. I'll do the same with the left side and the front. The pencil timers are set for thirty minutes from now. Hopefully the charges should go off at around the same time, although that's not vital. After we've set them, we hotfoot it to that tree that we used earlier, climb up and fire a bazooka round at the top floor. Two if we reckon that we have time. Then we sprint back to the pick up and get the hell out. Agreed?'
Petrus nodded. 'Agreed.'
Garrett drove to the same point that they had parked before. Then they took their FN rifles, the charges and the superbazooka with two rounds. They took the bazooka to the mango tree and lodged it in between two boughs about half way up the tree.
After that they split up and went to place their explosives. Petrus went right and Garrett left.
Chang's guards were placed inside the property, patrolling close to the walls. But there were two outside the front gate and Garrett had spotted two on the roof who were constantly scanning the area.
Luckily there were no outside spotlights so the sentries had to rely on the two working streetlights and the moon.
Moving unseen through the shadows is more of an art than a science. It does no good to simply attempt to hide or to merely stay out of sight. The odds are that you will, eventually, be spotted.
The secret is to become the shadows. And both Garrett and Petrus were masters of the art. They would move through the darkness, stopping when they were half in and half out. At the same time they would shape their bodies to blend with the lines of shade. Heads tilted to one side, an arm folded against their chest. A foot held a few inches above the ground so as to cast a small broken shadow. The object of the exercise was not to avoid being seen - it was to avoid the observer realizing what they were actually looking at, by using the light and shadow to create a false image. The phenomenon is called Scotoma - the mind sees what it chooses to see.
And some protagonists, like Garrett and Petrus, were so adept that it sometimes appeared that they had donned cloaks of invisibility.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 54