The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  ‘You’re right, the bloody Brits know what without oil, our economy will grind to a halt in no time,’ the minister interjected.

  David continued, ‘An oil tanker discharging in Beira means only one thing: the oil is intended for the Rhodesian pipeline. There’s no way you can pretend that it’s going anywhere else. The Portuguese have no refining facilities in Beira, so why ship it there?’

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘The way to do it is become crude brokers ourselves. Buy the oil once it is already in a tanker on the high seas, that’s common practice. It’s not unusual for a shipment of oil to be bought and sold a few times while still at sea. We can then divert the tanker to whatever port we may nominate. The country of origin is then superfluous. They would have no idea where the crude would eventually land up and cannot be held accountable. If anything goes wrong, we’re involving individuals. It’s like playing the commodities market. Of course, it would be best not to buy oil that originated from a country with British connections or British investment in the petroleum industry or any country closely affiliated with Britain, just to be on the safe side. The rest of the world really couldn’t give a damn, provided they are not directly involved.’

  ‘But that still doesn’t get it here.’

  ‘That’s right, but I’ve found two tankers we can buy. Obviously, we use bogus companies and ensure that they fly the flags of a neutral country or country not sympathetic to the British. We crew them with officers from countries who are not partial to the British. I believe the French are not a bad idea.’ David smiled. The French dislike for the British was legend. ‘De Gaulle has never liked the British and, remember, he sanctioned the Berzack deal. The British are still pissed off about that but can’t do a thing.’

  ‘Couldn’t you do another Berzack deal?’ the minister asked.

  David chuckled.

  ‘Absolutely not. That was a barter deal. As you know, the tobacco industry is government-controlled in France, so it was easy. Rhodesian tobacco for French textiles. A swap, no money changing hands. Nobody could point a finger. Oil is different.’

  Michael Read had been listening intently. He now intervened.

  ‘We need to get the oil to Beira, then from Beira to Umtali, through the Rholon pipeline. Sure, Rholon is a British-owned company but what can the British do? This is Africa and they’re not boss here.’

  ‘Simple, the tanker runs the British blockade,’ David said with a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Hell, simply runs the blockade? What makes you think we could get away with that?’

  ‘Hopefully, it will be flying the French tricolour. Any British Navy captain is going to think twice before he engages a French vessel. He’ll ask for written confirmation from Wilson himself before he opens fire.’ David’s smile hinted at a growing smugness. He modulated his voice to sound serious once again. ‘You are assuming that the British will let Rholon use the pipeline. While you may not agree with me, I believe the Brits will intervene and stop that. The British government made the money available when the pipeline was originally built. I believe you’ll find they think they have a vested interest. They’re not about to let Rholon forget that. Don’t forget, Beira is on Portuguese soil.’

  Butler grinned from ear to ear. ‘Christ! I’d love to see Wilson’s face when he’s asked to authorise a British Navy frigate to open fire on a French vessel. Don’t worry about the pipeline. Bully Rowman, Rholon’s chief exec, is very favourably disposed towards our cause and he is a personal friend of Jack Howman, our Minister of Defence.’

  David knew the minister, an impeccably-dressed man, pompous but shrewd, whose accent was more British than the BBC’s. It was said that he loved everything British except the Labour government.

  Silence followed.

  ‘Can you do this?’ Michael Read asked.

  David thought. Getting oil into Rhodesia past a British blockade would never be easy.

  ‘Yes. I believe so. But I need you to give an undercover operative. I heard what happened to Bertie,’ he said.

  ‘I know, bloody freak accident. Poor Bertie. I’m still not convinced it was an accident. I think MI6 took him out,’ Michael Read said.

  ‘Perhaps. God, I can’t believe they would stoop to killing your operatives. Christ, the man was from British stock. I think he still has a brother and sister in England,’ David muttered.

  Bertie had died in a motorcar accident in Germany, apparently while drunk. The problem was that Bertie had never been known to touch a drop of alcohol.

  ‘What about this operative I want? For God’s sake, don’t give me a Rhodesian. They stick out like sore thumbs,’ David said.

  John Taylor pursed his lips and then made a triangle with his fingers below his nose, his elbows resting on his lap. ‘I’ve a new operative. Funnily enough, she’s from East Germany. She escaped a few years ago, met a Rhodesian in Europe, married him, and came here. She’s a Rhodesian now, but has not been here long enough to acquire any Rhodesian quirks, if you know what I mean. She can easily pass as a Brit or German. They had a farm here. Unfortunately, he died and, what with this damn business and her fluency in languages, she landed up here in my division. However, she’s an excellent undercover agent,’ he said.

  David shook his head. ‘I don’t know. A woman? I don’t think that’s a good idea, if could get rough out there.’

  ‘Meet her first. I guarantee she’ll knock your socks off. She should be okay, it’s not like we’re at war with the Brits.’

  David did not ask him to explain the remark, but he agreed to reserve judgment.

  The men got down to serious business. David was to put the deals together. The oil would be bought on the high seas and shipped in their newly- acquired tankers, flying either French or Panamanian flags. The cargoes would be diverted to Beira where David would deal with the commodity brokers, arrange for payment, and ensure that the documentation was good enough to pass scrutiny.

  ‘John, just remember, my job is to get the crude into Beira. From there, it’s your problem,’ David said.

  ‘Don’t worry, my people will handle Beira.’

  As their discussions ended, Lionel Butler drew David aside. ‘Look, you’re only due to fly back tomorrow. Why don’t you join us for a barbecue? I’ve a few people coming around. I’ll invite Michael and your new prospective operative as well. You can them make a judgment. Who knows, maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised.’

  ‘Sounds fine. Thank you, sir. Where is this dinner?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have you picked up at the hotel by the same driver and car. Incidentally, dress is casual. And when I say “casual”, I mean casual. Some people will even come in shorts. This is Rhodesia.’

  David laughed. There certainly was nothing stuffy about these people when it came to dress.

  The Peugeot 404 collected him from the hotel and, a short while later, they drove into the entrance of the property. It wasn’t a house, it was a mansion. Butler was situated in Highlands, the Salisbury suburb was where most of the upper echelon of society was to be found. A black servant came down the stairs from the porch to open the car door.

  He had decided that shorts would be taking it to the extreme, so he chose to wear casual beige cotton trousers and an open-neck shirt, slim cut, so that it hugged his torso in the latest fashion, and tan slip-on Brook’s Brothers-inspired loafers. David was proud he carried no hint of paunch. He regularly worked out, played golf and squash, and considered himself in fair shape for his mid-thirties. His dark hair was cut in typical English style, a parting on the left side, the hair on the right brushed sideways just touching his ears. It had just begun to recede and he fancied this gave him a distinguished air. He had brown eyes, with the first sign of crow’s feet accentuated by a golfer’s tan.

  Both Butlers received him through the front door under a huge veranda. Edith was a typical colonial wife. They just have something different about them, he thought. You realised immediately they were colonia
ls. It probably came from having so many servants at their beck and call, coupled with excellent schooling and an upbringing which gave them a very clear perception of what was done and not done. Christ, it’s an enigma, he thought, they’re straight out of Kipling. I didn’t know that still went on.

  ‘How do you do? I’m so glad to meet you,’ Edith said. He guessed her to be in her forties. The harsh African sun had left its mark with her dry, tanned features, but she still was a pleasant and attractive woman. He noted with pleasure that she was not one inclined to excessive jewellery and make-up as he often found with women d’un certain âge in Rhodesia.

  ‘My son is a rancher nearby and is an officer in the Rhodesian Air Force,’ she said with pride. There were about twenty guests, mostly civil servants and their wives. None volunteered any information as to what they did for a living. If this was cocktail hour, it should have been renamed: the men predominantly drank beer and only a few of the women drank gin and tonics or pink gins.

  David accepted a beer from a passing waiter. It was ice cold. Others introduced themselves, but none asked what he did.

  About a half an hour later, he heard the sound of gravel crunching. He looked through the bay windows to see an archaic Land Rover, open to the elements with only a canvas canopy, one of those with the twin headlights still in front of the radiator. A tall, blonde woman, her hair tied in a ponytail, jumped out. She wore a sleeveless blouse tucked into a pair of cotton Bermudas, showing off her beautifully tanned legs. A wide red belt matching her pumps split the white of her top and shorts. He was struck by her beauty. She climbed the stairs appearing not to notice the furtive glances she received from the men.

  It was obvious she and Edith were acquainted as they were already deep in conversation. Lionel Butler said something and the women turned and appraised David for a few seconds. Then she and Butler broke away and walked over to him.

  ‘David, may I introduce you to Gisela Mentz. She is the lady Mike Taylor was telling you about.’

  She was even better close up. Her eyes were light blue, her lips full. When she smiled, he saw she had perfect white teeth. She took his proffered hand.

  ‘I imagine you must be Tusk,’ she said in perfect English. He thought he could detect the slightest hint of a German accent, but it might have only been noticeable because he knew of her origins, others would not discern it.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied in typical South African fashion.

  ‘Listen, you good people, could I leave you alone? I’m the host, I’ve things to do,’ Butler said. He left them and headed to the barbecue, which was manned by two servants.

  As Butler turned to walk away, David said with a broad smile, ‘Incidentally, you were right. I lost my socks.’

  The minister just laughed.

  David turned to face her, still smiling.

  ‘Excuse me if I sound blunt, he introduced you as “Mentz”. I thought you had married a Rhodesian.’

  ‘I am Mentz. My married name is Roberts, but after my husband’s death, I reverted to my maiden name. My German passport is still in my maiden name. It just made things easier. There are no children and no in-laws, so it really doesn’t make any difference. And you, Mr Tusk, are you married?’ she asked with a quizzical expression on her face. ‘Incidentally, you lost your socks?’

  He chuckled, somewhat embarrassed. ‘Oh, just a figure of speech, a private joke. No, I’ve never been married and this job doesn’t make marriage a good idea. Too much running around and subterfuge.’

  She laughed. It was a beautiful sound. ‘Don’t tell me. I know.’

  He stopped a passing waiter and asked for another beer. She asked for the same, surprising him. They found themselves a corner on the veranda out of earshot of the others.

  ‘Look, I’ll be blunt,’ David said, ‘I’m sure you are well qualified, but you’re a woman. This could be dangerous. I’m concerned.’

  She stared at him for a few seconds. ‘What did John Taylor tell you about me?’

  ‘Not much, he hardly said anything.’

  ‘Typical. Well, then I’ll have to tell you myself. I’m originally from East Germany. I escaped.’

  ‘When was that?’ he asked. He sipped from his beer glass.

  ‘About six years ago. Before that, I worked for the Stasi.’

  David was dumbstruck. The Stasi, Ministerium für Staatssicherheit. They were the East German equivalent of the KGB.

  She read his reaction. ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Yes, I am. What did you do there?’

  ‘I was recruited while still at school. As a child, I was tutored in languages – those that my father considered important. His connections ensured me a place at a very young age in the basic Stasi training program. The Stasi is a lifetime career. My fluency in languages assured the rest. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is to assure you I can look after myself.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. So, if you were privileged, I’m assuming that Stasi members were privileged, why did you leave?’

  ‘Do you have any idea what they do to people? I was never a Communist. My father was, and a party member to boot. He died and they assumed I held the same convictions he did. Not true. I fled.’

  ‘May I call you Gisela?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak English so well?’

  ‘My father’s fault. As I said, he always believed that it would be an asset. So from a very early age, I was exposed to the language every day. In fact, I went to a special school. Do you know what a sleeper is?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s somebody infiltrated into a country and only activated when he’s needed. He just pretends to be a normal inhabitant. Wife, child, house, job.’

  ‘That was one of the things they trained me to be.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly qualified.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Gisela, I think you’ll do,’ he said, adding a dash of humour.

  She laughed, pleased by his decision. ‘“I’ll do?” Is that how you put it? God, only a man could put it that way,’ she said. She shook her head in mock disbelief.

  The ice broken, they spent the next few hours talking about themselves, where they had lived, and what they had done. They both knew Europe well, particularly England and France, and swopped languages easily, speaking English, then German, and then French. She spoke the languages extremely well.

  They agreed that within the next few days she would come to South Africa and take up ‘employment’ with the Republic Bank.

  John Taylor would make all the necessary arrangements and ensure that his South African counterparts were made aware of her new status. Gisela would be issued with a South African passport to use while in South Africa, to avoid any entries in her German passport that show when she had been to Africa.

  David turned to Gisela.

  ‘I better talk to Butler and arrange to get back to the hotel,’ he said.

  ‘No, wait. I can take you, or rather drop you off. I’m going in that direction. That’s if you don’t mind a bit of fresh air while you’re out on a drive. And if you want to speak, you have to shout.’ She had a look of contained amusement on her face.

  He laughed, seeing the fun in the situation. It was a pleasant evening; the threatening rain had vanished. And, God, she was beautiful.

  ‘Okay, let me tell Butler.’

  David found Butler on the porch. Whisky soda in hand, talking to one of the guests he had been introduced to who was about to leave with his wife. He remembered the man, Reynecke was his name.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’ Butler asked.

  ‘Yes, but Miss Mentz has offered to drop me off. If it’s all right with you, and if you have finished discussing what was to be said, I think I’d like to take her up on the offer.’

  ‘Sure, she’s going to be working closely with you anyway,’ he replied. He pulled David to one side. ‘Just to let you know. On Monday, I’ll be putting wheels in motion authorising you to go ahead and acquire the two tanke
rs. Meanwhile, you need to find a commodities broker, preferably a European, maybe Dutch or Belgian, through whom we can buy the tankers and the crude. Just tread warily, we don’t need the British getting wind of this too early?’ He paused. ‘Okay?’

  ‘I’ll remember. I’ll speak to you when I get back to Johannesburg.’

  The Land Rover was meticulously maintained. It fired up at the first push of the starter button next to the clutch on the floor. The seats were covered in leather, the zebra fur with its white and black stripes lending the vehicle a safari air. All it was needed was the rack holding the rifles. She seemed to read his mind.

  ‘The rifles actually fit into the rack behind us, but I thought it wouldn’t do to be seen riding around town with them.’ She laughed, enjoying his appraisal of her vehicle. ‘Next, you’re going to ask why I’m driving this vehicle. Because I love it! My husband used to say it was a piece of junk. I had it rebuilt. I go everywhere with it. Sure, she’s sprung like an ox-wagon, heavy to drive, but I like it.’

  He feigned surprise. ‘Please, I had no intention of questioning your choice of vehicle. It’s fun,’ he shouted above the roar of the engine. They were moving at a good clip, the wind rushing through the cab.

  She drove well, in total command of the vehicle. Everything worked but, yes, it was archaic.

  He began to feel comfortable with having woman as an operative assistant. She appeared to be competent and in full control of herself, striking him as one of those straight-down-the-middle types. She’d tell you the truth and not pull her punches. It was the only attitude that could win this game. Bad news must be told immediately and quick reactions were essential. If she didn’t like something, he was sure he would know soon enough. To top it all, he found her beauty captivating.

  She dropped him off at his hotel.

  ‘I hope you’re not proposing to motor down to South Africa in this,’ he said.

  ‘No. I’ll leave my beloved here and find something that tickles my fancy in Johannesburg.’

  ‘Well, let’s see, maybe I can help. Until next Friday then. I’ll collect you at the airport if you let me know when you’re flying down.’