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Jackal's Dance

Page 42

by Beverley Harper


  ‘Others are coming in from the north. They’re using choppers. We’ll get the bastards. Our boys from Angola won’t mess about. They hate UNITA.’

  The policeman nodded. ‘If they get back across the border with hostages –’

  ‘We go in after them.’ The lieutenant’s voice was hard. He jumped down from the cab of his truck and stood, hands on hips, surveying the horror around him. ‘You finished here?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go through the bungalows but we won’t take anything. We’ll need to look at the guest register and staff records. Any objection?’

  ‘Go for it. Makes our job easier. It’ll take some time to photograph and bag this lot. Then there are possessions at the lodge to collect and tag before heading back to Windhoek. The news is out, I’m afraid. There are relatives to deal with, although at this stage we have no idea who is dead or alive. I don’t mind telling you, I wouldn’t want to be one of the unfortunate bastards trying to identify these poor sods. You go for it, mate. Just let us have a copy of your report. Do you want a lift back to the lodge?’

  ‘I will and thanks, that would be appreciated.’

  It was a relief to leave the pan behind. Back on Logans Island, Wells went first to the office. The guest register provided him with visitors’ names and bungalow numbers. Staff records took care of the rest. Megan had already given details of the students taken hostage and said that their professor, Eben Kruger, had been among those killed. She’d also stated that the entire African staff, with the exception of one ranger, had also been murdered. The game drive roster book made it easy to work out that Chester Erasmus was that ranger. Wells’ list grew. Now he needed to ascertain who among the tourists was dead. The girl had said that, aside from herself and the professor, three other Europeans were taken onto the pan. That tallied with the body count. Twenty-three African and four Europeans. Who?

  It seemed odd that the occupant of bungalow four had been suffocated. There were no signs in the room that he had put up any resistance. Why kill him there? Why not take the man hostage or execute him along with the others? His passport told Wells that Malcolm Black had been American. A line was drawn through the name.

  Blood on the bed indicated a struggle in number seven. Someone not giving in without a fight. Luggage tags informed the detective that the occupants had been Gayle Gaynor and Matt Grandville. He recognised both names. The well-known actress would be a valuable hostage, so he assumed that both were among those taken.

  Four European bodies. Professor Kruger. Wells ran his eye down the list until he came to Schmidt. Three of them. Too many. The terrorists needed only one. Bungalow three. He left number seven and walked there. Wells studied their passports. Germans. Mr, Mrs and daughter, Jutta. The girl was fifteen. Fair game to UNITA. It was possible, no, probable, that Jutta was a hostage. Walter Schmidt’s passport said he was a company director. That would make him good for a ransom. Wells put a question mark next to Erica’s name.

  Henneke and Johan Riekert. South African. So were the majority of hostages. Retired. Retired what? Impossible to tell from the passport photographs. The Riekerts stared back at him self-consciously. Check their belongings. Most of the clothes came from the cut-price supermarket chain, OK Bazaars. Guests of Logans Island were surely too well-heeled to be seen dead in mass-market clobber? Seen dead? He would mention labels to the lieutenant. The Riekerts were likely candidates. Question marks at least.

  Painstakingly, Wells and the four constables gathered as much evidence as they could. Down at the camp site, Megan’s account of the students’ capture was verified. All the signs indicated it had happened exactly as she’d said. The African staff had gone quietly. One ranger was probably injured. Another had been busy. Semen stains on the sheets – a lot of them.

  By the time they were ready to leave, Wells was fairly certain who were the four Europeans on the pan. His process of elimination was pretty much the same as Ace’s. UNITA would target as many countries as possible. Philip Meyer was Australian, Gayle Gaynor and Matt Grandville British, James Fulton an American, Felicity Honeywell South African with a public profile, Walter and Jutta Schmidt were the likely survivors from that family. That was seven. Plus five students, four rangers, the lodge manager and his wife. A total of eighteen. Looking at his list, Wells wondered about a couple of the rangers. Caitlin McGregor was Scottish so she’d be spared. Chester Erasmus spoke what Megan thought was Portuguese. Useful. It might bear looking into, though. Any African in Namibia who spoke the old colonial language of Angola might well have UNITA connections. It was the other two that were a puzzle. Both South African. Surely the terrorists had enough from that country. Unless . . . The policeman sighed. Yeah! Expendables. That’d be it.

  Wells closed his notebook. Should he stop at Okaukuejo and see if Megan could confirm his suspicions about who lay out on the pan? He decided against it. She’d explained how the study group came to be on Logans Island and said they hardly had anything to do with the lodge. Without passport photographs to jog her memory, the girl was unlikely to know who the other three bodies were. He couldn’t take any documents, the army needed them.

  A beer was definitely called for. The four constables had come to a similar conclusion. Fifteen minutes later, the army lorries returned with their grim cargo. Wells spoke to the lieutenant. ‘There’s a man’s body in number four. We’ve searched the island. No-one else. I’ve drawn up a list which will be with my report. I’m guessing at this stage but it’s likely that together with twenty-three African staff, you’ve got Erica Schmidt, Henneke and Johan Riekert and Professor Eben Kruger. The professor is confirmed. The other three were guests. Check any clothing. If you find OK Bazaars labels, chances are it’s the Riekerts. If there’s a woman with German labels, it’s probably Erica Schmidt. I’ll have something on paper by tomorrow, will that do?’

  ‘Thanks.’ The soldier turned and called a ten-minute break for his men, with a drink for those who needed it.

  Not one soldier had to be asked twice.

  ‘Come on,’ Wells said to his constables. ‘We’ll check that hut.’ He turned back to the soldiers. ‘If we find anything we’ll come back and tell you. Otherwise, assume no-one else copped it. Will you leave a guard on this place?’

  The lieutenant simply nodded.

  They stayed only long enough at the burnt-out shelter to ascertain that nobody else had been killed. The vets had said it was empty. They were right, though it provided little light in the blackest day of his career. The two police vehicles headed south. Wells had done all he could. He’d write up a full report immediately they reached Windhoek. It was a six-hour drive. Rescue of the hostages was up to the army.

  Major Eric Tully, a squat, dark man in his mid-forties, of English origin, with a spectacular lack of humour and no patience whatsoever with tin-pot rebels, led the search and rescue operation. He’d been chosen for his experience. Recently returned from a tour of duty inside Angola, Tully had seen action against UNITA on a number of occasions and knew a thing or two about what to expect. Under fire, the rebel army tended to become undisciplined, yet no conventional forces could match their ability to survive in the bush. They were skilled at concealment and ambush, able to get by on the smell of an oily rag. Covering vast distances on foot presented no problems – from sheer necessity the UNITA rebels were completely at home in the bush and had a level of fitness which came from spending most of their lives there, relying on speed and skill. Tully knew that he and his men would be doing well to catch them but for one thing. The terrorists would be slowed by their captives. But only for as long as they were on foot. If they made it back inside Angola they’d have assistance, and that would make tracing the hostages damned difficult. For now, tracking the group was still easy. The sandy soil pointed the way.

  Tully thought about that. A report had come through that they might be dealing with Ace Ntesa. It was not like the man to leave such a trail. He had to be confident that time was on his side. And why wouldn’t he be? If the W
ard girl had died with the others, the UNITA soldiers would have all the time they needed to reach Angola. So what’s chummy going to do? Make good time the first day and put as much distance as possible between the hostages and Logans Island. Etosha’s boundary is too far to reach in one go. Soldiers on their own might manage it but not civilians. The country between Etosha and Angola was rough, barren and open. A tough hundred kilometres, maybe more, depending on the direction they took. So Ntesa, if indeed it was he who led the raid, would probably ease up on the second day and cross into Angola on the third. That’s what Tully would have done.

  Would they move by day or night? More likely by day. Easier by far. Tomorrow everything might change. If Ntesa heard the choppers he’d take cover and employ the cunning that had kept him alive for so long. Ditto if he got so much as a whiff of Tully closing on him from behind. And that was a distinct possibility. As far as the major was concerned, this was a bit like trying to swat a mosquito with a sledgehammer.

  Tully had far too many men with him. It was overkill. A knee-jerk reaction by the big brass in Windhoek. Either that or some fool’s desire to prove that the Namibian Defence Force was not to be trifled with. Whatever the reason, a whole company, over one-hundred men, was ludicrous. The job should have been done with an experienced assault group of no more than twenty. Argument about it being a waste of taxpayers’ money fell on deaf ears. The powers that be had insisted. So here he was in the middle of nowhere, following spoor that stuck out like dog’s balls, with a logistically ridiculous number of inexperienced children tailing behind. Some were raw recruits. He needed them like a hole in the head.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Tully bellowed.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Double time.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The sergeant dropped back to relay Tully’s order.

  Just before sunset they found where the terrorists had camped the previous night. ‘Looks like they had a bit of a party in the riverbed. That’s confidence for you,’ Tully commented to his adjutant, as he surveyed the broken bottles. His professional mind was assessing the possibilities. Drunk, the terrorists would be as unpredictable as wild animals. While that might make their capture easier, it didn’t auger well for the hostages. Tully’s nostrils flared in total disapproval. Drinking on a mission was simply not on.

  ‘Sir. Over here.’

  Tully joined his sergeant and stared at the ground. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Strips of green and red canvas covered two splintered wooden poles. Tully hunched down and fingered the material. There was something familiar about it. Where had he seen it before? Then it came back. Only a few months ago, after Angola and before joining his Windhoek unit, he and his wife had spent a relaxing long weekend in Etosha. Each bungalow at Logans Island had a hammock slung outside above the wooden deck. Tully had spent considerable time in his. Why would UNITA want to bring a hammock? The student had said that one of the tourists seemed to be unconscious. Did someone need to be carried? If so, was that person still alive? Unlikely. Tully rose, still holding the canvas. Anticipating the worst, he checked signs on the sandy ground, and found what he was looking for. A flattened area where something heavy had been dragged. And lots of dog-like paw marks around it.

  The sergeant pointed a bit further away. ‘Sir. Hyena droppings.’

  Tully walked over and examined the pale excrement. Clearly visible in it was more green and red striped canvas. While the hyena’s digestive system can process many things, including bone, the carnivore known as nature’s garbage remover could not manage material. A strip of khaki also twisted through the stool. Clothing maybe? Tully remembered that all the hammocks had been red and green. ‘Know what I think, sergeant?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I think one of those poor bastards died here and has been eaten by hyena.’

  ‘Jesus!’ The man blanched.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Tully admonished.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Another soldier shouted. ‘Sir, there’s blood on the ground over here.’

  Tully joined him beside a shallow pool of water. ‘Quite a lot of it.’ The blood had crystallised and lay in small squares. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The soldier had no idea why – perhaps the major was referring to the fact that it had been left untouched.

  Tully wasn’t about to expand on the observation. He spun on the balls of his feet and yelled, ‘We’re walking through the night if needs be. Let’s get after these bastards.’

  Ace called a halt for the night when they reached the northern perimeter fence of Etosha. Tomorrow, before first light, they’d cut it and continue towards Angola.

  Walter helped Jutta to sit down. Saying nothing, she stared around, terrified of what might happen next. A shudder ran through her body and, crying with no sound, she pressed herself hard against him, clutching one arm with such strength that Walter knew he’d have a bruise. That was the least of his worries. It told him that while she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, speak, his daughter remembered and was afraid. As much as he loved her there was nothing he could do to take the fear away.

  Kalila and James sat together. He held her. Both were trembling. Neither spoke.

  Gayle gratefully sank down. The soles of her feet seemed to be holding up, her blistered heels less painful. But her sore knee ached abominably. She simply shrugged when Dan asked how it was. The problem was nothing compared to what probably lay ahead.

  Felicity and Philip talked quietly. ‘There’s a piece of glass in my right pocket,’ he said. ‘I can’t do anything about it now, someone might see, but after they tie us up, I want you to try and get at it. Hold it so I can cut the rope. Okay?’

  ‘Will do,’ she breathed.

  Chester listened carefully to the soldiers’ conversation. Then he walked past Troy. ‘Rum and brandy,’ he hissed, confirming their preference for dark spirits. Neither were as popular with lodge guests as gin or whisky so stocks were kept low. But even after the previous night, enough bottles remained in Fletch’s pack. Chester did not add that Troy, Jutta, Caitlin, Felicity and Kalila had all been discussed for later entertainment.

  Sean and Thea watched Billy approach. He came towards them hesitantly, but Thea could see something confrontational in his face. ‘No-one will listen. This scheme of those kids is crazy. It will get us all killed. I don’t want any part of it. You’re my wife, will you back me?’

  Thea glanced at Sean. His expression showed the same disbelief she felt. ‘It’s our only chance.’

  Billy’s lip curled and he nodded towards Sean. ‘Is that what he wants?’

  ‘It’s what we all want.’

  ‘I’m going to stop this. I don’t wish to die because of a bungled escape attempt. You’re all mad.’

  Sean stepped closer to Billy, anger in his eyes and the set of his jaw. ‘If you jeopardise this one chance we have, I’ll kill you myself,’ he gritted. ‘If you’re too chicken to take part, fine. Just stay out of our way.’

  Billy moved back, shaken by the emotion he could see. ‘Try and stop me, Hudson.’

  Thea knew that Billy was beyond reasoning with. From experience, she was aware that once he’d made up his mind, he rarely changed it. No point in trying persuasion. A more direct argument might work. ‘You’re outvoted, Billy. You may not like it but there’s nothing you can do about it. None of us is prepared to go through another night like last night. It might be your turn next. Have a little think about that before you rush off and ruin everything.’

  She’d got through to him. Thea pressed home the small advantage. ‘I can’t speak their language but I can read the signals. They’ve made it clear enough. Caitlin has been selected and she knows it. They want Jutta again. Can you imagine what that will do to her?’ She took a deep breath and lied. ‘They were also looking at a couple of men. You were one of them.’

  Billy glanced quickly towards the soldiers. Two were watching them, alerted by what looked like an argument of some kind. It was enoug
h, he backed down. But he needed the last word. ‘I still don’t like it, and if we ever get out of this alive I’ll make damned sure everyone knows of my objections.’ He turned and left them.

  ‘Prat!’ Sean said softly, unable to stop himself. ‘Who the hell does he think will listen, let alone care?’

  ‘He’s scared,’ Thea said as quietly.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ Sean countered. ‘The difference with Billy is that he’s the only one among us who thinks only of himself.’

  ‘That’s why I lied.’

  Sean’s own fears at their predicament surfaced suddenly. ‘If this doesn’t work I want you to know that whatever happens, I love you. It’s important to me that you know that.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Thea touched his arm briefly with her fingertips. ‘I do know that and, whatever happens, it will help.’ Tears welled briefly as she thought of the possibilities. She brushed them away. ‘Stay close to me, Sean.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Diversion time,’ Troy whispered, his stomach churning with anxiety.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Caitlin rose to her feet.

  ‘Better with two.’ Josie got up as well. ‘What do we do?’

  A fire was already going. The soldiers were excited, confident. Any moment now, they would want alcohol. ‘I don’t care what it is,’ Troy gritted. ‘Just do something, anything, but do it now. Angie, you stay here. Try to screen me from sight.’

  Josie and Caitlin had moved away as if going to answer a call of nature, immediately attracting Ace’s attention. The high-pitched scream took everyone by surprise. Josie stood pointing at a bush, eyes wide, one hand over her mouth.

  Caitlin grabbed an arm. ‘What is it?’ Even though both had agreed to create a diversion, Josie’s bloodcurdling scream caused the ranger to jump.

  ‘Snake! It’s huge. Look!’ Josie was pointing, shouting. ‘There, it’s moving. Don’t go too close.’

  All eyes were on the panicked student. Ace called to Chester. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  Chester shrugged. Josie was having mild hysterics. ‘Somebody do something. Kill it.’

 

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