[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan

by Christopher Lowery

  Gomez strutted up to Olivier. “Patience is a virtue, wouldn’t you agree? It’s taken me nine months to catch you redhanded, but what a bonus I’ve earned by waiting.”

  He turned to the Angolan bodyguard. “The exalted Sr. Alberto Pires da Silva, a hero of the revolution, caught with his hand in Angola’s till. I love it.” He gestured to the case in Alberto’s hand. “Let’s see what’s in that briefcase.”

  Alberto tried to tough it out, the Portuguese knew nothing, yet. “You impudent bastard. Don’t threaten me with guns and treat me and my friends like bloody criminals. I’m a major in the Portuguese army. Stand back and put those arms down!”

  “Shut the fuck up and put the case on the table. These men are under my orders and they’ve got instructions to shoot if you piss me off. I personally don’t give a shit what happens, just another dead crook, that’s all.”

  Alberto placed the case on the table between him and the Portuguese. “It’s full of papers concerning the mining operations. I’m down here on official business. Just wait until Cunhal hears about this. He’s going to have your balls for breakfast.” Despite the bluster he knew they were cornered. He had to prevent Gomez from opening the case.

  “I don’t believe a word of it. You people have been as thick as thieves and there’s more to it than mining papers. Money or diamonds is more likely, so let’s see, shall we?

  “And just try to do something stupid,” Gomez continued, “these soldiers can’t wait to exercise their trigger fingers. Ask your dead guard outside if you don’t believe me.” He picked up the case and tried to release the two catches. “Give me the fucking key, you stupid Angolan prick. I’ve told you what’ll happen if you try to play any tricks.”

  Alberto’s mind was working furiously. Although he hadn’t been active for several years, apart from his injured leg he was still strong and had always been a tough fighter. Gomez was no problem, but the two armed soldiers might stretch the odds. He clumsily threw the key on the table. It fell to the floor and he stooped to retrieve it, stepping nearer to the Portuguese. The soldiers’ attention was diverted by the clatter of the falling key and they failed to notice Henriques slowly inching towards the filing cabinet standing against the wall.

  “Give it here, you Angolan imbecile!”

  Gomez snatched the key from Alberto’s hand and opened up the two side locks. “What’s the combination?” he snarled.

  “I can’t remember. I’ve written it down here somewhere.” Alberto fumbled through his pockets, desperately trying to think of a plan of action.

  Gomez snatched the pistol from the holster of one of the soldiers and pulled Manuela over to his side. He held the gun to the terrified woman’s head. “I’ll count to three, then you lose your girl friend. One, two..”

  “I thought I told you to fuck off!”

  Suddenly the door had burst open again and Joachim was standing in the opening, his big silhouette outlined against the darkness. His left arm was hanging down uselessly at his side, blood covering his shoulder and chest and dripping from his sleeve, but his right hand was aiming his submachine gun into the room. The soldier on the far side had no chance to react and was cut almost in half by the hail of bullets, but the other turned swiftly and a burst of fire brought Joachim to his knees. Just as swiftly, Henriques grabbed his pistol from the top of the cabinet and fired three times into the soldier’s chest. As the man was blasted backwards against the wall, Alberto threw his arm around Gomez’s neck and twisted viciously. There was a sickening crack and the Portuguese traitor dropped lifeless to the floor. A moment later, Manuela fell down beside him in a dead faint.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Friday, June 27th, 1975

  Ambrizete, Angola; Leopoldville, Zaire

  The telephone in Maggie’s apartment rang at six in the morning.

  “It’s Olivier. Sorry to call so early, but I need to speak to Nick.”

  He gave the South African an abbreviated version of the night’s events, emphasizing that they were all safe, except for the unfortunate Joachim. The merchandise was in the briefcase, on its way to the airport with Alberto. He was obliged to return with the military flight to avoid suspicion but they had agreed that it was too dangerous for the others to go back into Luanda. Gomez probably hadn’t suspected Cunhal’s bodyguard’s involvement until he’d arrived at the mine, but he may have told the local authorities about his suspicions of Olivier and the others when he enlisted the soldiers. There might already be an alert out for them. They couldn’t risk it. Alberto had therefore driven off alone in the jeep to get to the airport in time for his plane.

  Despite Nick’s requests for more details, he told him only that they had got rid of the bodies and it was unlikely that they would ever be discovered. Henriques’ plan was to drive up the inland road, going through the border at Noqui, to Matadi, in Zaire. Matadi was the principal port on the Zaire River and there was a good highway to the airport in Leopoldville, the capital. Henriques had made the trip before, taking about eight hours, including the border crossing. There they could find flights to Paris and on to Lisbon. Henriques and Manuela couldn’t fly anywhere else without first getting visas for their Angolan passports.

  The Angolan’s reasoning was sound. He had established good relations with the FNLA, the only forces they were likely to encounter on their way through the north-western province. In addition, under Mobuto’s rule, Zaire was treating Angolan refugees kindly, having already accepted many thousands of them since the announcement of independence. With a vehicle and enough money to bribe the rebels and the authorities, they should have no trouble getting through the border and even less trouble flying out of Leopoldville. It was a good plan, Olivier was confident they would be back in Portugal within two days, ready for the next step.

  Nick could do nothing but take note that Alberto should be arriving at Lisbon airport at ten that night and was expecting to meet them there. He wished Olivier and the others the best of luck. “See you in Lisbon, then Geneva. Travel safely.”

  He put the phone down and said to Maggie. “I have a very bad feeling about this.”

  At twenty minutes to eleven, Alberto walked into the departures hall at Craveiro Lopes Airport, carrying the briefcase. He strode confidently through the hall, carrying the case lightly, as if there was nothing in it but the file of documents from Neto. Inside he was shaking with nerves. What if they’ve had news of the attack? What if that bastard Gomez knew about me before and has advised the authorities? What if he was in league with Cunhal and it’s a trap? What if they want to open the briefcase?

  He pushed his way through the milling crowds and approached the immigration desk. A group of passengers was being led past the border guards at the desk by a UN official. People in the crowd were trying to push into the group. Scuffles and fist fights were going on all around the desk. Four soldiers were pushing back the angry, frightened mob. Beside the desk was a young woman carrying a small baby. She was screaming at the officials, desperately trying to convince them to let her go through. The baby was making as much noise as the woman.

  One of the men shouted at her, “When you come back with a ticket, you can get through, not before. Now get back to where you came from and stop hassling us, we’ve got important work to do.” One of the soldiers turned her bodily around and pushed her into Alberto’s path.

  The woman saw Alberto in his major’s uniform and grabbed him by the arm. She thrust the screaming baby at him. “Take my baby to Lisbon. We’ve been here for days, we can’t get out. We’re going to die here, we’re all going to die. Please take my baby with you, I beg you.”

  Trying to prevent the baby from falling, he dropped the briefcase on the floor. He ignored it and gently placed the baby back into the mother’s arms. “I can’t take the baby and I can’t take you, Senhora, I’m on a military flight. But there are a lot of refugee planes scheduled to leave. You’ll get on one. They’re helping people with children.”

  He turned to the soldie
r who had picked up the briefcase. “I am Major Pires da Silva. Here are my documents. Bring a UN official over here immediately and get this woman and her child on the next flight. Now give me my case and let me through, my plane leaves in ten minutes and I don’t want to arrive in Lisbon late for Sr. Álvaro Cunhal.”

  Alberto could hardly force his legs to climb the steps up to the 727. He was a nervous wreck, his mind numbed by the multitude of emotions he’d experienced over the last few hours. He was sweating freely and his limbs were shaking as if he had a palsy. He’d managed to extricate himself from the pathetically grateful embrace of the woman and get through the barrier. The guards had not tried to stop him. There was no alert for him. He walked past the control desk to the accompaniment of their salutes and cheers. Now, all he wanted was to have a whisky, grab some sleep and get rid of the briefcase as soon as he arrived in Lisbon. He didn’t want to hold it for one minute longer than necessary. He was getting too old for this kind of thing.

  Olivier and the others drove away from the mine at seven o’clock on Friday morning. They needed to get on their way quickly in case a warning notice about them had been issued.

  After Alberto left for Luanda in Joachim’s jeep, the men’s first action was to take the bodies away from the compound before the workers started to arrive. They left Manuela to clean up the office and then sleep for a few hours while they manhandled the four corpses into the Transit van. Without waking anyone in the cottages, they drove downstream for several kilometres to a high area of the riverbank, surrounded by a copse of trees. It took them over an hour to bury the bodies and they came back bone weary and covered in mud and gravel.

  His brother Sergio was already in the office when they returned and Henriques recounted the night’s events. He introduced Olivier as someone from APA, with no further explanation. His brother didn’t seem particulary concerned about the deaths, except for Joachim. They had been childhood friends. All he said was, “Are you still going to get us out and look after us?”

  “Absolutely,” replied his brother. “Wait until we’re sorted out and I’ll tell you the plan.”

  They cleaned up the Transit van and filled it with gasoline, food and water and additional jerrycans of fuel in the back. Then they showered off the night’s filth and Henriques found some overalls for Olivier which almost fitted. Manuela was now rested and ready for the journey.

  Sergio and Elvira brought out their two children to see them off. Henriques took his brother aside. “Take this pouch and keep it safe until you leave.” He sprinkled ten cut, polished diamonds into Sergio’s hand. “They’re worth forty or fifty thousand dollars, but don’t use them until you get out of the country, it’s too dangerous. Hide the pouch in Raymundo’s clothes when you leave and show it to no one.” He handed him a wad of fifty and twenty dollar bills. “Use this cash until you get out of the country.”

  He explained their itinerary and promised to call when they reached Leopoldville. “Then I’ll tell you what you should do. Say nothing to anyone. Don’t take the risk that there’s rebel spies about. Get the truck ready to leave and wait for my call. Don’t worry, look after Elvira and the kids and we’ll soon be seeing each other again somewhere safe.”

  Henriques took the first shift, driving back along the dirt track to take the road up towards Lussenga, leading to the border post at Noqui, about a hundred and sixty kilometres north-east of Ambrizete. He knew the road, which was little more than a track. It was dry and in fairly good condition, so his time estimate should have been accurate. But he hadn’t taken into account the thousands of inhabitants who were fleeing their homeland for the safety of Zaire. The trickle of refugees had now become a flood heading for Noqui. The narrow road was packed with families struggling to escape the imminent MPLA onslaught that would come from the south and the east to smash the FNLA forces and take the north-west province.

  It took them six hours to get to the outskirts of the border town. The van had no air conditioning and as they moved slowly along under the blazing sun it was like being baked in an oven, the sweat running down their bodies until they were soaked and dehydrated.

  They picked up Avelina, a young woman with a small baby in her arms and dragging along a little boy and girl trudging wearily beside her. Besides helping the exhausted family, it would provide more camouflage if they were stopped by a patrol and also at the border. Avelina’s husband had been killed by the MPLA the previous week in a shoot-out with the FNLA. She was desperately trying to escape from the country before she and her children suffered the same fate. The incident had taken place at Quimavongo, a town just forty kilometres south of Ambrizete. Henriques was right, the MPLA were starting to move north.

  At the entrance to Noqui, their passage was blocked by an FNLA unit. Olivier was driving and the women were in the back seat with the sleeping children. They were now in the midst of a mass of refugees, not just from the north-west, but from towns towards M’banza Congo to the east and from the south as far as Uíge, even Luanda. They took up the whole width of the road. Young men and women. Adolescents and children. Old people, healthy or crippled. Walking, cycling, pushing prams, carrying infants, riding horses or in horse-drawn carts, a few in ramshackle old cars. It was a heartbreaking sight.

  “Have you ever seen anything so fucking tragic in your life?” Henriques struggled to contain his anger and sadness at the devastation of his country and the plight of his fellow Angolans. The only advantage of the milling crowds of refugees around them was that with their cheap, worn clothes, they were not worried about attracting attention.

  There were about twenty rebel soldiers standing with their weapons in the midst of the procession of refugees who were trying desperately to get past them to freedom. A wooden barrier was erected across the road and they were extracting a toll from the exhausted travellers. Those who couldn’t, or wouldn’t pay, were pushed back, to join the growing numbers of people sitting by the roadside, wailing and crying in their fear and misery.

  Around the area where the barrier was erected, Olivier could see the burnt-out wrecks of a dozen vehicles; cars, vans and a couple of army trucks. On the other side of the road another thirty or so rebels were sitting around a makeshift campsite of filthy tents, alongside a brackish stream and a pond that looked and smelled like a cess pit. He didn’t want to imagine what was below that greasy, turgid surface. Under the remorseless heat of the scorching sun, the whole place smelled of corruption and death. There was an overriding aura of rank terror.

  “Stay here and don’t move or make any noise,” said Henriques. He went to talk to the guards whilst the others sat silently, sweating in the van.

  Five of the rebels came over with him to the vehicle, machine guns and pistols in their hands. Teenage kids, skinny and wide eyed. Arrogantly waving their guns at everyone and everything. The testosterone emanating from their pores was almost tangible and the rancid stink of their sweat was overpowering. They pointed their weapons at the group inside the van, laughing at the fear they induced. Then they lined them all up with Henriques in the hard-baked mud at the side of the road, a pock marked youth left to cover them with his machine gun, high on chewing iboga bark, jittery and jumpy, as if he had the St. Vitus dance. After the murder of her husband, Avelina was shaking with terror and could hardly hold her baby. Manuela took the child from her and they held the other children against them, sweating and trembling in the torrid heat, praying to be delivered safely from these teenage killers.

  The youths ransacked the vehicle, taking the few items of any value. Then one of them, apparently senior to the others, started bargaining for a payment to open up the road. Finally, Henriques negotiated a fee of ten thousand escudos for them all to get through. The kid took the money, seeming to agree, then he turned to Avelina. She was a buxom, pretty woman, about twenty-two, still with the extra weight in her breasts and bottom after her recent childbirth.

  “The others can go, the kids as well, but you stay.” He pulled the young woman asid
e.

  “No! No! Pity!” Avelina started screaming and struggling and the other youths came up to help him drag her away. Olivier jumped forward to pull her back and one of the youths smashed his rifle butt into his kidneys, knocking him flat, then pushed his face into the filthy ground. The others grabbed Avelina again and her shift was torn off her shoulders, revealing her large, milk-filled breasts. At this, two of the adolescent rebels pulled her to the ground and started pulling the garment off her, the others laughing and cheering them on.

  Henriques looked wildly about him, the woman would be raped in front of them and he would be shot out of hand if he interfered. Avelina was shrieking hysterically, begging for mercy. Manuela and the older children added their screams of terror, pleading for her. Another soldier came over to see what was going on. He looked about twenty-two years old, wearing a shirt with the epaulettes of a Portuguese major, badges and ribbons on the front. Henriques stepped out and grabbed him by the hand, smiling and talking, pulling out a wad of escudos. It was an officer from the unit near Ambrizete he had been bribing for the last six weeks.

  The man looked around at the scene. Now, Avelina was naked under the remains of her shift, vainly trying to pull it across her body to hide herself. One of the youths was undoing his flies while the other two held her down. Other rebels had come across to join in the rape. Olivier was kicked back down each time he tried to climb to his feet. He was bruised, bleeding and frightened for his life. Another of them tried to grab Manuela, but Henriques pulled her back and stood in front of her, turning the children away from the terrifying scene.

  The ‘major’ pulled out his sidearm and shot it into the air. “Stop! That’s enough! Let them go and get back to your duties. Get this van out of here. We’ve got enough problems with these people, don’t make it worse.” He pocketed the wad of notes and pulled Avelina to her feet. Olivier staggered up and the two men helped the women and children into the van and locked the doors. The soldier waved them on through the barrier.