Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  The hands of the Western super-powers would be tied - his underground agents assured him that no Western army would dare to interfere in Mozambique or Rhodesia, with the memories of Vietnam still so fresh in their minds. But meanwhile, left-wing politicians all over the world would urge their governments to acknowledge the new Zimbabwe, and the coup would be her­alded as a victory for the oppressed peoples of Africa, an overthrowing of colonialism and the beginning of a new era of equality. Immediately, behind the scenes, the banks, heavy industries and mines would be nationalised. Key figures in commerce would be arrested for exploitation of the people before the Revolution. The men he was speaking to now would take command within the next few days. All wages would be dropped to an equal level, and people would be asked to ‘volunteer’ their services to the new republic.

  The South African border would remain open, but Soviet forces inside Mozambique would annihilate the Rhodesian- backed Mozambique National Resistance Movement and re­open the Beira corridor. That way the new state would not have to rely on its South African neighbours. It would not take many years before the pressure could really be put on the South African government . . . But, he must not dream of the future now, for fear of neglecting the present. He still had lots to do.

  Vorotnikov turned away from the impressive spectacle of the helicopters, bombers and fighters that had been set out for him on the runway. He thought about the woman journalist, Saman­tha Elliot.

  It irritated him that she had been spirited away from him, and he looked forward to the pleasure of seeing Tongogara and Mnangagwa in front of a firing-squad. It was all they deserved, they were traitors of the first order - and his black colleagues’ lack of enthusiasm for searching for the the two dissidents irked him considerably.

  Still, he was sure Miss Elliot couldn’t have escaped the country, and it would be very hard for them to keep her presence here a secret. A blonde white woman in a black republic with its efficient bush-telegraph system had little chance of remaining anonymous for long. Her kind would not be tolerated in the new Africa. The media would be in the hands of the state, firmly controlled.

  He saw the major coming towards him and wished that his visit to the airport were already over.

  The early morning light gradually revealed the land - a densely bushed area that allowed one to see little more than ten metres ahead at ground level. Rayne couldn’t have chosen a better landing place.

  Already it was getting warm, and the men were beginning to realise that they weren’t going to be particularly comfortable for the next week. The truck had landed badly, buckling its front wheel, and two of the men were already busy fitting a spare. All the other equipment had been found and Rayne was busy burying his parachute. They must all be away from here in a matter of hours. By midday he and Guy must have found the car and be heading into Beira.

  Bunty Mulbarton came striding quickly towards him. ‘Every­thing in order except for the truck, sir, and that’ll be fixed in a few minutes. The jeep is already running and the cannon is in perfect working order. We’ll be ready to set off within the hour to look for better cover. Should Larry Preston and Mick O’Rourke stay with us for the next couple of days?’

  ‘Yes. Guy and I will get familiar with what’s going on in Beira, then we can bring Larry and Mick in. I want to minimise the risks at all stages. If Guy’s and my cover is blown it still means you’ve got seventeen men to do the job, and you must just drop the bank plan.’

  Bunty’s face wrinkled against the sun. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that, sir. It seems to me you’ve got a brilliant cover.’

  ‘I’m not taking any chances, Bunty. Anything can happen, and it probably will. If we decide to change plans at all it must be in the next couple of days - we won’t be able to, once we’ve lost contact with one another. You must hold all our weapons for the moment. Guy and I will only collect ours when we’ve found a safe storage point.’

  When they’d finished fitting the new wheel to the truck, they began moving. Bunty, Michael and Rayne took the jeep, the rest of the men and the equipment were aboard the truck. They’d buried some of their things, and these they would come back for if necessary.

  Bunty drove very slowly, making as little noise as possible. Working with the compass, they made it to the main dirt road leading from Beira into the interior.

  The moment Rayne and Guy leapt out, Bunty pulled away, and the truck followed. There was no time for pleasantries. The two men watched the back of the truck disappearing down the road and then walked back into the bush ten metres from the roadside. Between them they had two pistols plus an Uzi sub­machine-gun each in their back-packs. Without saying a word they began moving east in the direction of Beira.

  Now they had to rely on their wits. The slightest noise or movement was enough to send them down on their stomachs. Fortunately there was little traffic on the road and they were not forced to hide often.

  After an hour they came to the left turn marked on Rayne’s map. They took it, still keeping well out of sight of the dirt road.

  Eventually this road became little more than a track and they relaxed slightly, knowing that here there was less chance of discovery.

  Another half hour passed and Rayne began to get worried - they should be nearing the car now. What if it wasn’t where the map had indicated? He was beginning to sweat when he saw what was obviously the back bumper of a car sticking out of some bushes.

  Rayne gestured for Guy to remain hidden. The Frenchman immediately dropped his pack and took his pistol in both hands. Then Rayne broke cover, walking slowly towards the old Peugeot 404. Its white paintwork was covered with dust, though the interior looked more or less clean. His eyes ran over the tyres and the outer bodywork, checking their condition and finding them satisfactory. Gingerly he opened the door and slipped behind the steering wheel.

  His hand searched the top of the sun-visor where the keys should have been and found nothing. Then he checked under the mat beneath the steering wheel. No keys. What the fuck had they done with them? He hadn’t got time to waste, he would have to hot-wire the car to get it started.

  The bonnet release lever pulled back easily and he heard the noise of the catch releasing. He got out of the car, opened the bonnet and peered inside.

  The muzzle of the gun felt cold against the stubble on the side of his cheek. Sweat dribbled lazily down the back of his neck, and he felt himself being relieved of the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. He knew better than to do or say anything. He just waited for the first command.

  ‘All right, sucker. Move slowly back from the car. One funny move and you’ll get it through the neck.’

  The man, who spoke Portuguese, must have been waiting for him. The tone was surly and confident.

  ‘OK. Kneel on the ground and undo your pants.’

  No fool. With his pants round his legs there wasn’t much Rayne could do.

  Another man came into view, a squat, ugly black man of medium build with a bushy beard. His skin was oily and smooth, his movements easy. Obviously this man had spent much time in the bush. Rayne shivered. Fuck, now there were two of them.

  ‘You must be a wealthy and influential man,’ the black man sneered. ‘The one who brought the car did not talk easily. It took me and Paolo a long time to get him to say anything. I hope you’re not the same.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Where you’ll be if you don’t shut up.’

  Something hit Rayne hard on the head from behind. What the hell was Guy doing? Who were these men and what did they want?

  ‘I like you, my friend. I am sure we can do business. You pay me enough and I will let you go. I have always valued the lives of the wealthy, they understand my principles. I hope you are going to talk easily, there has been enough violence today. Paolo, I think it is time to give our friend a quick working-over.’

  The sound was deafening. Rayne fell forward as he heard the first shot. A red patch spread across Paolo’s jacket, and
the black man screamed as the second shot ripped into him. Rayne heard the sound of someone else moving closer to him.

  ‘What do you want to know from them?’

  The voice with its French accent was cold and emotionless. Already Guy had earned his money. Two shots, two men down. Cool and ruthless.

  ‘Where are the keys to the car? And who are they?’

  Rayne pulled himself up as Guy dragged Paolo to his feet by the scruff of his neck. Paolo’s body was now covered with blood. Guy’s shot had hit him just below the right shoulder-blade, a crippling shot but not enough to kill him - Guy had already realised they would need information from these two.

  ‘Where are the keys?’

  Even though he was in great pain, Paolo smiled and spat on the ground. Guy dragged him across to where the black man was still lying, similarly wounded. Guy crouched down next to the black man, holding Paolo. He spoke softly, so Rayne could barely hear what he was saying.

  ‘Your friend Paolo won’t tell me where the keys are.’

  The black man smiled up at him as Paolo had done. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  Guy pushed Paolo’s face close to the face of the man lying on the ground, then there was another explosion as Guy put a bullet into the black man’s skull.

  ‘The car keys?’

  ‘In his left pocket.’

  Rayne went over to the dead man and found the car keys in his pocket. He hoped Guy would finish the Paolo man off quickly.

  The man started to gabble. ‘I run this area. If you kill me my death will be avenged. No man can threaten me, even the Russians respect me.’

  ‘You are not with the army?’

  ‘I take from the army. I am a brigand.’

  ‘Where is the body of the man who brought the keys?’

  ‘Just near to the car. Behind the tree over there.’

  Rayne went over to look at the body. As he had expected, it was badly mutilated. This man, who was to have been their contact, had clearly died in great pain. He walked back to Guy. ‘Dead. They tortured him.’

  Guy looked into Paolo’s face. ‘I have no respect for you.’ He pulled the trigger and the man’s body shuddered as the bullet passed through his heart. Guy threw the corpse down and got up.

  ‘Guy, we must conceal the bodies. It won’t take much time and at least there’ll be a chance that they won’t be discovered.’ ‘All right, sir. But such scum hardly deserve a burial.’

  They found a slight hollow in the ground and moved all three bodies into it, covering them with earth and rocks. By the time they had finished, the area looked just like the surrounding bush.

  ‘This country is no different from anywhere else in Africa. I don’t know how any man can live in such a place.’

  ‘Just thank God we’ll be out of here in a week.’

  ‘I do not think there will be more trouble from the friends of that man.’ Guy spat contemptuously on the ground.

  The car started easily, and Rayne drove carefully back along the track till they were almost on the main dirt road, then he pulled over and they both got out. They took the clothes that they would wear for most of their time in Mozambique out of their rucksacks. In a few minutes they were both transformed into rather shady-looking characters dressed in crumpled suits. Guy wore a dented Panama hat on his head that added to his seedy appearance.

  ‘You are now Henri Dubois, an arms dealer of considerable reputation.’ Rayne handed Guy his papers, then took out his own. ‘I am Bruce Brand, a man who has seen most of the wrong side of Africa. I deal in arms and drugs. We are a natural team. Let’s get going.’

  Guy nodded in agreement and they got back into the car. Soon they were cruising towards Beira at a leisurely pace.

  The road-block was a crude affair - no outlying gunners, and badly placed. If Rayne and Guy had wanted to, they could have taken the men out in a matter of minutes. But they were now civilians, innocently going about their gun-running business. They pulled up next to the guard, who was dressed in a combination of uniforms but spoke to them in Portuguese - in which both Rayne and Guy were fluent.

  ‘Get out of the car. I want to see your papers.’

  Guy and Rayne clambered out of the car as lazily as possible.

  For travellers in Mozambique such stops would be a regular, irritating occurrence; they both had to act as if this was the fiftieth time they had been stopped and as if they found the whole business extremely annoying.

  The guard did not seem in the least put out by their lethargy. He examined their papers, more for show than anything else.

  ‘Where are you going?’ An idiotic question, seeing that the road led only to Beira. However, even idiotic questions must be treated seriously.

  ‘We are going to Beira.’ Guy spoke as nonchalantly as possible. Both guards roared with laughter at his reply. The one who had asked the question then stared at him coldly.

  ‘This road only goes to Beira, my friend. What is your business?’

  ‘We have come to see a friend of ours at the bank, we’ll be staying at the hotel. We have some business matters to clear up.’

  ‘I do not like businessmen. They take what belongs to the people and use it to make themselves wealthy.’

  The guard stared at them for a few moments. Then he handed them back their documents and waved them through.

  Rayne pulled away very slowly, anxious to seem as if he wasn’t in a hurry. The men Guy had just killed must have passed through this same road-block, and when they were missed, questions would be asked. He was glad now that they had taken the precaution of burying the bodies.

  The road ahead was getting wider though not better. Occasion­ally they would pass the burnt-out wreck of a car or a truck, lying in the bushes at the side of the road. Then, at last, they came over a crest and found themselves looking down at Beira and the Indian Ocean beyond. They could see the town proper, and a much larger shanty town next to it. Near the main harbour was a giant collection of fuel tanks. Immediately to the south, the Pungwe River snaked its way out to the azure-blue expanse that disappeared into the horizon; while to the north lay the airfield, strangely empty. Yet Rayne was sure he could make out the lines of camouflage covers, and underneath them, undoubtedly, lay a formidable array of modern fighters and helicopters.

  Guy voiced his thoughts. ‘It is smaller than I imagined. We won’t be as inconspicuous as I had thought. It will be dangerous.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we have an excellent cover. It’ll give us the perfect excuse to be seen all over the place. The only trouble we might have is with the Russians, and we’ll have to try and avoid bumping into them at all costs. We’re their competitors, in a way; we’re selling exactly what they’re selling - though for a different reward.’

  Rayne eased the car forward and soon they lost their pano­ramic view of the harbour town and were back in the bush again.

  They came up to another road-block just as they were heading into the town itself. Rayne could feel how tense he was becoming. The security was stiffer than he’d realised, they’d really have to watch every step they took.

  The line of questioning here was much the same as before, except that this time the commander phoned the hotel to find out if they were expected. Rayne and Guy sweated heavily, hoping that nothing was wrong. If they were arrested at this point, they stood little chance of getting away. Eventually the commander put the phone down and walked over to the car.

  ‘My friends, you are most welcome. The hotel has confirmed your booking. I hope you enjoy Beira.’

  Rayne drove slowly along the partially tarred main road. It obviously hadn’t seen any attention since the Portuguese left. The town was well laid out in a typically colonial style. Many of the houses had seen better days, though it was clear that the place had never been really prosperous. His eyes noted every­thing of importance. There were few shops, and virtually no one was on the streets. It was almost like a ghost town. The bank looked run-down, as if it were permanently closed.

&nb
sp; The hotel was at the end of the street, overlooking the sea. It was a two-storey structure with pretensions to grandeur. They pulled up outside and walked up the steps to the giant wooden entrance doors standing open.

  The entrance hall was vast and gloomy, filled with bad furni­ture and dominated by a large reception desk that looked more like a bar. On the main wall above the fireplace was a picture of the Mozambican president, Samora Machel. In the far comer of the room two white men were enjoying a drink. Rayne guessed they must be Russian military personnel.

  ‘’Allo. Mr Brand and Mr Dubois?’

  They turned to the desk to see a short, stocky Portuguese standing behind it. His hair was swept back from his forehead and glistened with oil, his teeth stood out from his mouth like a chipmunk’s and he grinned at them idiotically.

  ‘Welcome to the Hotel Beira.’

  Rayne didn’t say anything. He was watching the Russians out of the corner of his eye - they didn’t appear to be in the least bit interested in him or Guy. He leant over the counter and spoke quietly to the hotel proprietor. ‘Who are those men?’

  ‘Ah sir, you are worried? There is no need. They are Russian military advisors. I am Fernandes and I am at your service.’

  Rayne shook the oily palm pushed out to him and Guy followed suit.

  ‘I will show you to your rooms, the best that the hotel has to offer.’

  They followed him up the wide staircase and along a gloomy corridor. In some places the ceiling was sagging, and huge pieces of plaster were hanging off the walls. At the end of the passage Fernandes flung open a door and stood to one side.

  ‘Both rooms are the same, they look out to the sea. You can order anything you want by phoning me directly. Please keep your door locked when you are not in the room and do not leave anything valuable lying around. There is great poverty here and even the most honest men are not above stealing. Lunch will be served at one o’clock and dinner this evening at eight. Drinks are always available from reception, and the bar is open most of the time. Now I must have your deposits, please.’