‘The fuckin’ bastards,’ she hissed, ‘If they think I’m going to give this up, they’re mistaken. I will rebuild this house. They won’t stop me! It will look like it used to, believe me, they don’t know me yet! I will stay here in those rooms you have converted into our living quarters until the job is done The farm will continue as before. I’m truly sorry about Kallie. Petronella can stay for as long as she wishes, their house is hers to use, but I’ll get a new manager. You just wait and see!’ she said, her voice full of venom and hatred.
He was taken aback by her outburst but agreed with her. This was not the time to throw in the towel. He had his own vendetta. He wanted the bastard who had led the terrorist group.
In view of his gunshot wound and Gisela still recuperating, he took an indefinite leave of absence. He assumed the role of manager, running the farm with Gisela overseeing him. The confines of the living quarters did wonders for their relationship. There was no place to hide and continuous interaction between them on a daily basis. Her convalescence was miraculous. Within three weeks, she no longer needed the sling although her arm was still stiff. Yes, he loved her. If he had any doubts before, these had evaporated. Still the intense, uncontrolled hatred she harboured towards the terrorists, which seemed to simmer just below the surface and periodically came to the fore, still concerned him. It unnerved him, leaving him with the feeling that during such a moment she could lose total control and could be capable of anything, even cold-blooded murder.
He found that he actually enjoyed farming, the sun, being out in the open, the bellowing of cattle, the ceaseless humour of the blacks and watching things materialise before his eyes. The building of the new house, the ploughing of a field, and the sunset after a hard day’s physical work imbued him with a new sense of belonging.
It had been weeks since he had made love to her. Yes, he had hugged and kissed her, but he had been told that while her shoulder mended and the tendons knitted again she was not to move it. After three weeks, he was so consumed by his need for her that he saw something erotic in most things she did.
Eventually she was allowed to remove the sling. He was already in bed when she exited the bathroom. Only the bedside lights were on, casting a pool of light on each side of the bed, enough to read by. She stood at the foot of the bed in the flimsiest of negligées, reaching to just below her crotch. He just stared, she giggled.
‘God, what it takes to turn you on!’
‘You were in a sling and I thought—’
‘Stop making excuses. Just watch.’
She took the hem of her negligée and slowly lifted it, pulling it over the top of her head until she was naked. She dropped the garment to the floor, lifted her arms above her head and slowly pirouetted. At that moment, he thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. He let his eyes slowly rove over her, her sex, her beautiful firm breasts that seemed to defy gravity, the aroused nipples, the cascade of blonde hair, the thin waist, and the long legs.
‘My God! You’re beautiful. Come here,’ he whispered, aware of his wanton arousal, aching for her.
She slowly walked to his side of the bed and stood in front of him. He grabbed her by the buttocks and drew her to him. He let his lips slide over her stomach, kissed her inner thighs and then her pubes. She threw her head back and emitted a low moan of pleasure and expectation.
‘Oh Christ!’ she moaned, ‘Oh yes! Please …’
He felt her fingers tremble. He slid over to make room for her and drew her into the bed, she lying down on her back. She reached out her hand and let her fingers glide over his stomach and then took him in her hand. He gasped as her fingers closed on him.
He moved on top of her and with his knees parted her legs. He kissed her nipples and buried his face in her neck. He felt her tremble again.
‘Please, do it now.’
As he slid inside her, she gasped in his ear.
He made love to her with both her hands clenched in his, pressed into the bed behind her head.
Soon she heaved and then keened as he, with a shudder, exploded inside her.
CHAPTER 70
Frustration gnawed at Sizwe. He could not leave the room during the day and even at night, it was dangerous. Thandeka had told him that it seemed the Special Forces no longer concentrated on the Centenary area, probably having assumed that he had escaped. There was no news about his three comrades. Every evening after ten, Thandeka would slip into the room and they would talk. The butcher complained about the laws that prohibited him from buying property where he wished, from obtaining a licence to sell liquor and doing business as a free man. The white man’s laws were designed to stifle the black man’s business and political ambitions. He admitted he had many white friends but they all saw him as inferior, always evident whenever they met. Some would subconsciously lapse into English tinged with a black man’s accent when speaking to him. It was as if they were lowering themselves to his level. It hurt and was an insult. He was adamant that the white man had to be driven from his land. He wanted to be master of his own destiny.
‘I have found someone to assist you,’ Thandeka said one evening during their discussions.
Sizwe was immediately wary. This is how you were caught or killed, he thought.
‘Who is he?’
‘He was a policeman until about a year ago when he was booted out of the BSAP.’
‘What for?’
‘He struck an officer. They jailed him for a few months and after his release chucked him out. He has now got a job at the local municipal stores and vehicle pool as a security guard,’ the butcher said.
‘He knows weapons?’
Thandeka nodded and added. ‘Look, he’s reliable. I would trust him with my life. He hates the white man.’
The man came the next evening. His name was Michael. He was thin and tall but all muscle and sinew like a long distance runner, with a narrow face, a long jaw and flat ears.
‘I don’t have a weapon for you,’ Thandeka said.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve my own. It’s an FN2 rifle and I’ve got about fifty rounds of ammunition for it.’
‘That’s enough. ‘
From Thandeka’s sources amongst the locals, they learnt that the erection of the security fence at the farmstead had been temporary halted, the workers concentrating on clearing the debris and rubble. Additional labour had also been recruited to help rebuild the house. There were now also two armed guards who patrolled the property at night. They had learnt that the outer building had been converted into living quarters, both Mrs Mentz and Tusk staying there. They and the farm supervisors carried weapons at all times, FN rifles and machine pistols. A small contingent of Special Forces troops were now billeted in the town in support of the BSAP stationed there.
‘What’s the plan?’ the newcomer asked.
‘It’s difficult. Those on the farm have re-installed the radio rapid-response system. The moment the farm has the slightest perception that we’re around, they’ll call for help, as will any other farmers in the district. So we have to get to their sleeping quarters without being seen.’
‘That’s not possible. If the police are guarding the property you won’t be able to get near. The locals will alert the police of any unknowns,’ Michael said.
All three pondered the problem until Thandeka spoke up.
‘I’ve an idea,’ he said hesitantly. ‘They’ve employed additional people on the building site. I believe we need to get you two employed by the group that’s rebuilding the house. I have a connection in the group who can assist. You work there for a week or two until those at the site are familiar with you so that you can move around without suspicion. I’m sure that a few of the builders stay there overnight, not wanting to travel back and forth everyday. I mean it’s inconvenient. That would put you close to the outer buildings. Of course, you’re going to have to smuggle your weapons in.’
A slight smile crossed Sizwe’s face. ‘That’s brilliant,’ he said, looking at Michael for
a response. Michael nodded his approval.
‘Can you get us into the building team?’ Sizwe asked dubiously.
‘I can only try,’ Thandeka responded. He raised a hand and waved a finger at them. ‘But, be sure, I don’t want to attract any attention to myself or my family. Don’t put me or my family in danger.’
He refused to assist them in any other way and once they left his house, they were not to return.
Thandeka never told them how he managed to get them included in the group that travelled to work on the farm every day. Two days later, he told them that they were to report to the assembly point in town near the main bus stop at six in the morning where they were to ask for Paul, who was one of the foremen. He would tell them what they would earn and what their duties were. Under no circumstances was anybody to be brought into their confidence. They all boarded a large truck, which drove them to the farm, the same vehicle returning them in the evening. Michael had given Sizwe temporary accommodation.
Paul was just what Thandeka had said he was, a foreman. It was evident that if they intended to keep their cover they would have to work as labourers. He was clear on that, those that shirked were fired.
For a few days the two men mixed cement, pushed wheelbarrows filled with bricks or sand, and did other menial jobs they were given. Sizwe enjoyed the work. It helped him get back into physical shape again. He also had time to study the farmstead complex and the habits of those they had targeted. He regularly saw Mrs Mentz, who took a keen interest in the rebuilding process, and often she had the man she called David at her side. Each time Sizwe saw them an intense hatred consumed him, whilst he pretended to carry on his work lest he become obvious and draw attention. They were always armed, at least with automatics strapped to their sides and even at times carrying automatic machine pistols. Fortunately, both Michael and Sizwe were Ndebele and mixed easily with the others, readily accepted as the others were also Ndebele. No one was suspicious.
There was no work on Sundays. Sizwe had moved in with Michael, who shared a large shack with others in Centenary. The accommodation was primitive. He shared a room with four others. During the night of the first Sunday, Sizwe returned to the kopje. He dismantled his rifle, putting the pieces into a gunnysack with the ammunition and two hand grenades. Once at the bottom of the kopje, he slung it over his shoulder and carried it back to Centenary. A man with a sack over his shoulder would not be seen to be unusual. He had also added a pair of boots, clothes and a water bottle. His concern was that he would be asked about its contents, but he had seen others boarding the vehicle with toolboxes and bags and hoped no-one would think his carrying a bag unusual. Similarly, Michael had also smuggled his weapon onto the farm.
The travelling back and forth to Centenary was tedious and, after a week or so, some of the workers decided to ask permission to stay overnight on the building site, which Gisela allowed. The men were unarmed and there was no reason to be suspicious. Michael and Sizwe joined the small group, sleeping in the half-erected house, lighting a wood fire on the ground. They had also built a crude shelter in the event of rain. For this, they used the twisted and burnt corrugated iron roof sheets.
The security fence had remained untouched, all work still concentrated on the house, the work progressing rapidly. In the early evenings, they were free to walk round. The guards would always arrive just before sunset and after a while no longer concerned themselves with the workers, knowing most of them by name. Sometimes the workers would even share their food with the guards, developing a degree of camaraderie between them.
They stopped work for an hour at one in the afternoon, the hottest time of the day. The two men lay down in the shade.
‘We do it tonight,’ Sizwe said.
Michael jerked out of his half-sleep. ‘Why tonight?’
Sizwe pointed to the northwest. ‘Look at the clouds. It will be overcast tonight, it might even rain.’
‘You’re right. We’ll wait until about midnight.’
Their biggest concern was the two guards. They dare not shoot. From steel reinforcing rod used to rebuild the house, Sizwe had fashioned two nearly two-feet-long pointed spikes, with a wooden handle on the end. Both also had knives honed until razor-sharp.
As Sizwe had predicted, and so typical of Africa, by ten that evening the clouds blotted out the moon. The first jagged lightning flashes and rolls of thunder heralded the coming rain. Everyone sought shelter in the lean-to they had erected, all cramming into it. When Sizwe said that he and Michael would look for shelter elsewhere, none objected. They sprinted to the other side of the building site and clambered beneath the new corrugated sheets, which were raised above the ground lying flat on wooden trestles. It was primitive but effective. It started to rain before midnight.
From where they were, they could see over the expanse of lawn in front of the house. The two security guards had taken shelter under an enormous plane tree that dominated the front of the house, the thick foliage providing excellent cover. At intervals, one would patrol around the house, the other remaining in the front. The area around the house was littered with all sorts of building paraphernalia: cement mixers, shuttering, bundles of wooden boards, wheelbarrows and stacks of cement bags, the latter covered by corrugated iron sheets to protect them from the rain. The guard would invariably make his way clockwise round the house and outer buildings, winding his way through the building site.
Sizwe sought a site to ambush him that was as far away as possible from the outer annex and the large tree. The rain would cloak most sound but not a piercing death scream. That had to be avoided at all costs. The area where the cement bags were stacked was ideal. Sizwe had placed a few wheelbarrows in the passageway, not quite blocking it, but forcing anybody passing through to move to the left, nearer to the stacked bags.
He waited in the rain behind the bags, Michael next to him. Half an hour passed. The guard was reluctant to leave the shelter of the tree but eventually he started his perimeter patrol, a small slicker draped over his shoulders to protect him from the rain. He wore a slouch hat, the brim pulled down to protect his face.
As the guard stepped past where he was concealed, Sizwe stepped out from behind the bags, clamped one hand over the man’s mouth and, with all his strength, drew the man’s head back, trying to slit his throat with the knife. Meanwhile, Michael moved up in front and drove the steel rod into the man’s heart. Blood spurted, a bubbling sound coming from the guard’s throat as he dropped his weapon, both hands trying to clasp his slit throat. The man slid to the ground, his heels drumming on the dirt in his final death throes. Sizwe grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him behind the cement bags while Michael picked up his FN rifle and hat.
‘Okay, I’m going to take up position behind these bags. As we discussed, you go and beckon the other guard to come and look at something on this side of the house. Tell him his partner sent you. Let’s hope this works. He’ll probably make you walk in front of him. Just be prepared for anything, I don’t know what he’s going to do,’ Sizwe said.
It was still raining lightly. Michael walked towards the front, making sure that there was nothing suspicious in his actions, appearing unconcerned and relaxed. Once he rounded the corner of the building and the security guard was no more than twenty yards from him, he stopped and called, beckoning with his hand.
‘Your partner wants you to come and look at something on the other side of the house. He asked me to call you,’ he said loudly above the sound of the light rain.
The guard seemed to think nothing of it. He took his rifle and slung it over his shoulder, clearly indicating to Michael the man was unconcerned. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as he got to Michael.
‘I really don’t know. Something at the fence on the other side. He asked me to call you.’
He led the way with the guard following behind him. As they passed the stacked bags, Sizwe stepped out from behind and swung a piece of four-by-four timber at the guard’s head, striking him from behind
with a loud thunk. The guard fell to the ground. Michael turned round and drove the oversized ice pick into the man’s temple. The man had died soundlessly. His body was also dragged behind the cement.
Both men quickly returned to where they had hidden their weapons, which they retrieved along with the hand grenades, water bottles and other items they would need.
‘Now to get near to the outside rooms without alerting those ridgebacks,’ Sizwe said.
During the past week, they had befriended the dogs, giving them scraps from their meals. However, they knew that dogs were unpredictable, especially ridgebacks. During the day they could be your friend while at night the only friend they had was their master, which meant that, whilst they may not physically attack, they would bark and possibly try a mock charge. This was bound to arouse everybody. He wondered whether the rain had driven the dogs indoors. They were house pets, Mrs Mentz allowing them free rein in the house.
Sizwe peered around the corner of the half-erected house and slowly examined the yard between the house and the outer buildings. Everything appeared normal. The dogs were not to be seen. However, in the dark, they would not be discernible if they had taken shelter. He looked at the room which the couple used as their sleeping quarters. The wooden door was closed, as was the outer security grille door. He knew it was a large room, having walked past it a few times during the last week. He had seen a large double bed at the one end of the room and a couch and two easy chairs in front of the bed with a small coffee table in between. He had hoped that he could toss a grenade through the bars of the grille door. This was not possible as both the grille door and the window were protected by a layer of closed-mesh steel wire. All he could do was throw a grenade at the foot of the door, which would probably take out both doors, but would not kill the occupants as they were too far from the door. That would mean that he would have to step inside and finish them off. They were sure to have their weapons near at hand. Would the concussion from the grenade leave them incapable of retaliating for a few moments?
The Blockade Runners Page 32