by J E Higgins
“That will work,” Rhys said. “I’ll need a few days to make preparations here. As I said, I have a couple of guys here I want to recruit for the nucleus of my team. I have some guys I have worked with that I know will work for this operation that I can trust. I’ll contact you in about four days when I’m ready to move.”
The Filipino nodded as he resumed the tour of his art room dismissing the New Zealander he no longer considered of interest. Rhys turned and showed himself out the door.
16
The man wailed in a loud, high-pitched, blood-curdling scream that echoed around the room. It was cut short by a plastic bag, which was slipped over his head and pressed tightly against his face.
Dove Baker, a bear of a man, held the bag tightly at the nape of the man’s neck while pulling it back behind his head ensuring no air reached the victim. Soon the wailing was replaced by violent contortions as the man struggled against the thick duct tape binding his arms and legs to the wooden chair. The man’s animalistic survival instincts had taken over.
The torment lasted for several seconds before Dove slipped the bag off the man’s head. The jolting stopped. The man fell defeated in the chair taking deep breaths of much-needed air. The recent trauma of suffocation had caused him to almost forget the pain from his recently severed middle finger.
The room was lit by the single bulb of an old lamp that was directly over the door, making the other people in the room appear to be shadows, ghosts surrounding the soon to be dead man bound in his chair.
“Shall we begin again?” Devon Williams said to the bound figure in a refined upper-class British accent.
The bound man had broken down into a sobbing mess. He was covered in the dark red blood from his severed finger, and he could hardly answer. “You people are monsters! This is not South Africa, you can’t do this here!”
Williams moved directly in front of the man. Partially hidden in shadows, he towered over the prisoner, a horrifying demonic figure. “In this room, you are in South Africa, and you are an enemy terrorist who aids other terrorists. So, we respond to your actions accordingly.” He nodded his head to Dove who slipped the bag back over the man’s head. The contortions began again. After another few seconds, the bag came off leaving the man gasping for air again. “Are you ready to answer my questions?” Williams asked.
Leaning against the wall with arms folded, Sauwa watched in disgust. Her stomach churned as the interrogation proceeded. She hated the tactics they used. Despite Williams’ explanation, she found the practice barbaric. James Musamba was an agent for the Southwest African People’s Organization (SWAPO). He was part of a team that had been trained in the Soviet Union and sent to Western Europe to assassinate prominent South African diplomats. Sauwa and Dove had lifted Musamba from a safe house he had been staying at in London’s South End.
Musamba took a deep breath in between the gulping snivels and his tears. With a quick clearing of his throat, he drew back a breath and launched a large wad of saliva and blood from his mouth in the direction of his interrogator. The spit missed Williams by a good margin and splattered the wall. “That is my answer!” Musamba replied with defiance as he glared at his captor with hatred.
Keeping his reserved demeanor, Williams stepped over to get closer to his captive. “They all talk tough at first. You all want to prove you are warriors and brave men. In the end, you all crack. It’s just a question of when.” Looking over at Dove, he nodded. The bear-like man moved out from behind the chair until he was alongside the captive. Grabbing Musamba’s hand, Dove forced one of the clenched fingers to straighten out as Musamba was pleading and crying while he fought to resist.
Dove slid a loop of thin metal wire over the captive’s extended finger. Musamba’s jaw began to quiver and his hatred quickly turned to fear. The wire came from a cheese grater and worked as a cheap and effective torture device. He began to twist it tightly against the man’s skin. Musamba went from terrified whimpers to cries of pain.
Not able to take any more, Sauwa cracked open the door and slid outside. She slammed the thick metal door behind her, but she could still hear the blood-curdling screams. She closed her eyes and began to take deep breaths in the hopes that she could mentally close out what she was hearing. After a few seconds, there was silence, and she was left alone in the poorly lit corridor. Her only companion was the small radio she had brought. It was faintly playing a version of the Oasis song Wonderwall. It was her favorite band and, strangely, her favorite song. Even when the screams continued to resonate from the room, she was able to concentrate on the song and blot out everything else.
After a while, the door opened, and Devon Williams stepped out. He looked down at her with his soft, kindly eyes. It was not the look of a man who had ruthlessly tortured a man only seconds ago. Sauwa ignored him as she stayed focused on the music. He took his forefinger and slid it under her chin. With a gentle but firm amount of force, he tugged her head until she was looking up at him.
Their relationship was complicated. It often resembled more of a father-daughter relationship than a superior-subordinate one. She looked up at him. Even in the dim light, he was a polished, handsome figure, with a neatly groomed crop of wavy, raven black hair, and a heart-shaped face. In his jeans and navy P-coat, he looked like a distinguished professor or successful writer. His black eyes were like pools that consumed her. “You stepped out rather suddenly. Not getting squeamish, are you?” He looked serious.
“I don’t like your methods,” she replied as she removed her head from his hand and looked away defiantly.
He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Hardly anyone does, save for sadists. But these people we’re fighting don’t play by conventional rules or respect laws of decency when it comes to war. They’re brutal and take no prisoners. We simply fight this conflict as they do and respond to their actions as necessary. Dirty wars are never easy and seldom do they yield heroes as opposed to the necessary evils everyone will remember with shame. But we are fighting for our very survival Sauwa. You and I know that better than anyone. Remember these people, or people like him, kill innocent whites who have nothing to do with the government in Pretoria, so save your tears for those who truly deserve it.”
Sauwa folded her arms and dropped her head back against the wall. “I hear that speech every time. They do it, so we must do it. And, I think that is the same rationale they use when they do the same to our people. We brutalize indiscriminately, and so must they. It all just sounds like an excuse for the sadistic to justify their pleasures.” She stood up and started to walk away. “I better watch outside and make sure we don’t get any kids wandering in on us.”
She heard William’s voice behind her. “South Africa is our last hope on the continent. Don’t ever forget that. These darkee bastards have chased our people out of every other country that African whites once called home including Rhodesia, our true homeland. South Africa is the last place for our kind.”
“Our kind?” Sauwa turned to look back at her commander. “These rebel groups may be comprised largely of thugs and radicals. I know your own sister was just working on an aid mission when SWAPO guerrillas took her and murdered her.” She knew that Williams’s sister, Tara, had been in Southwest Africa (now Namibia) when she, along with several others, had been kidnapped by soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army of Nambia (PLAN), the military wing of SWAPO. A few weeks later the bodies of some of the workers were discovered in a shallow grave. They had been burned alive. Williams had never been able to let it go.
“It can’t be easy for you thinking that these people have any legitimacy in their cause. But let’s remember the Afrikaner government in South Africa has done a great deal to fuel this. We’ve arrested all the legitimate black politicians for exercising legal rights, and their peaceful protests have long been met with open gunfire. The Afrikaners and their Apartheid regime have certainly gone a long way in stoking the fire and driving people into the hands of these fanatical groups.”
&n
bsp; “Careful Sauwa,” Williams chided. “This sounds like treasonous talk for a country that took us in when Mugabe and his goons were forcing us out of our own country of birth.”
“Treasonous talk? The country that took me in?” She started back toward her commander. “Let’s remember that Apartheid was set up for the Afrikaner rule. Their bloody Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa speaks of the Afrikaner as the master race. You and I are nothing but necessary evils to them. They let us in because they needed our expertise at covert operations and guerrilla warfare to aid them with their own burgeoning unrest. They call English the language of the oppressor and refuse to speak it when dealing with us. They allow whites of English extraction into places of authority only when necessary, otherwise, they would have us out of their country just as easily if given the chance. So, I fight for the better of two very bad evils. But don’t ever tell me that I owe them when I know I’m just fodder for their war. And, what they visit on the non-whites has resulted in fostering the problem we’re in right now, where we fight ruthless dirty wars with fanatics as opposed to negotiating with rational minds.”
Williams said nothing. He remained stoic as he stood looking like a father realizing his daughter was becoming a young woman. Recognizing the discussion had ended, Sauwa turned. “I’m going up top to make sure we don’t have any unwanted guests showing up.” As she walked away, she could hear the moans of a beaten Musamba as the round of torture started again. Then the wails of pain suddenly went quiet. His usefulness at an end, he met his demise as all the others had, at the sharp end of Dove’s carving knife.
17
Sauwa’s eyes burst open. Suddenly wide awake, she found herself staring up at the steel rails that lined the roof of the warehouse. The building was dark except for the lights from the exit signs and some random lights that remained on permanently. She lifted her head from her pillow and looked over to see if she had woken anyone. Her dreams could be quite vivid, and she felt a chill at the possibility she may have been talking in her sleep and someone might have heard her.
Across the row of cots, all the men were asleep. When she checked Tarkov and Carzona, they were asleep as well. Her watch read 0530 hours. She was wide awake and figured there was no point in trying to go back to sleep.
Sliding quietly out of her sleeping bag, her stockinged feet hit the concrete floor. She threw her jacket over her shoulders and pulled her pants up in the nipping cold. She had been wearing the same pants for the past few days, and they were starting to feel a little crusty. If she didn’t get a chance to get some new clothes soon, she would need some place to wash.
Rising, she padded softly across the icy floor. She thought about putting on her boots but resisted out of courtesy to the rest of the team. Making her way to the door, she cracked it open and slipped outside.
The air was pleasant. A warm breeze coming in off the ocean cut through the early morning chill. It had a calming effect on Sauwa as she leaned against the building and looked out over the eastern horizon to the slim, orange-red lining at the base of the darkened sky. It was a pleasantly beautiful, tranquil dawn.
By 0800 everyone was up. They moved randomly through their bathroom routine, checked their personal baggage, and grabbed one of the boxes containing their breakfast. Carzona’s people had gotten meals from some Greek restaurant, a tasty meal containing a salad, triangular pita chips, hummus dip, and a folded pita bread sandwich.
At 0900, the mercenaries were seated in the operations area facing Tarkov. He was holding some sheets of paper in his hand and began the briefing with an overview of the country’s demographics and societal makeup, pointing out that the majority of the country’s populace was ethnic Greeks with a Turkish minority. He went into the contemporary history mentioning the failed attempt of Greek nationalists in 1974 which led to the overthrow of the three-term president and religious figure Markos III. This overthrow was ultimately thwarted by the immediate invasion of Turkish military forces who seized the northeastern end of the country and divided it into a separate state with a government recognized solely by Turkey. Today the island remains partitioned with half the country under Turkish rule. Their existing border is tightly guarded and tension continues between the two sides.
The briefing went on to discuss the security forces. The military is a small national guard comprised mostly of conscripts serving twenty-four-month commitments. The police force is a national department that receives both equipment and training from a variety of different countries. Their tactical experts and investigators have attended academies such as the National Security School for the Greek Police and the national academy of the American Federal Bureau of Investigation.
After his quick background of Cyprus, Tarkov went on to discuss their mission. “There is a group that goes by the code name “The System” that seeks to undermine the government of the Philippines. A delegation of this group is here in Cyprus to make contact with an arms dealer for the purpose of procuring a sizable quantity of weapons.” A black and white image flashed on the wall showing a group of four men. They were all dressed in dark, conservative business suits and looked to be the same ethnicity as their employer. At an initial glance, they appeared to be normal business executives having an informal meeting.
“The mission,” Tarkov started and paused. “Our intelligence sources have identified these men as the chief representatives of “The System”. They arrived in Cyprus a week ago and met with this man.” Carzona flipped to a picture of another man with long hair hanging down to his shoulders and a pair of trendy horn-rimmed glasses that rode on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing a sweater and a leather jacket. He looked like some modern-day executive entrepreneur of an emerging dot.com. “This is Theo Kalopolis, an arms trafficker, who they’ve met with to fill their order. Our mission is to not only subvert the arms deal but ensure the weapons procured here do not make their way to their destination. In short, we are to thwart the deal in its entirety, preventing “The System” from accomplishing its goal to overthrow the Philippine government.”
“Who are the primary targets?” Sauwa asked.
“Anybody who is helping them accomplish their mission,” Tarkov answered. “The mission is to neutralize the problem. That means we target who and what we have to, to ensure our adversaries do not have the means to succeed.” He reached for a stack of folders and began handing one to each member of the team. “These are the reports we have on the players. Read them over, so we can start discussing plans and general courses of action.”
“Courses of action?” Sacchini asked in surprise. “You mean there isn’t already a plan in place for us to follow?”
The Russian nodded. “Our employers found the initial means to obtain intelligence to begin making a plan. However, that’s all. We don’t have a concrete plan yet. We will be planning this operation from scratch right here.”
The mercenaries grumbled. They were bewildered and nervous at hearing this news. They were operators, accustomed to conducting missions where the initial plan had already been established and laid out by a staff or commanding officer. The news of building not just a plan but the strategy of attack entirely from scratch in an alien country was not well received. For a moment Tarkov feared some of them might demand to be released from their contract.
Then Sauwa spoke up. “This is good.” Very quickly the room went silent as all eyes fell on her. Having the floor, she continued. “Our employers don’t care if we survive this or not. Since we’re the ones on the ground, not them, we should have control over how we proceed. Nothing is more dangerous than following a plan from someone so far from the action.”
Her words sunk in. As soldiers, they were accustomed to dealing with planners who were more closely involved with the mission. It was an alien world to deal in a clandestine environment where the higher command tended to keep an arm’s length from the whole operation and the battlefield in general. They left the mission’s direction and planning to their people on the ground.
It was a world Sauwa was all too familiar with.
Gradually the grumbles transformed into satisfying nods. Tarkov felt a sense of relief that he didn’t have to deal with a full-fledged mutiny. He looked over at Carzona who, despite not saying anything, showed a hint of relief himself. Tarkov gave a quick nod of thanks to Sauwa before resuming control of the meeting. The next hour was spent in silence as everyone began reading over the material. Carzona, having already read the information maintained a watchful eye to ensure that all papers remained in the folders or on the tables and not anywhere else.
The time was spent in utter silence as the mercenaries studied their documents. Tarkov, like Carzona, watched everyone carefully. He also had read the files prior to the briefing and wanted to make sure the information stayed in their controlled environment. He paid particular attention to Sauwa during all of this. She was the most experienced one out of all of them for this type of operation. At least that was his understanding based on his interview with her and Valikov’s comments regarding her abilities in this field.
As a man who had been more soldier than spy, he acknowledged his limitations in this field and hoped to rely on her advice to help plan and execute this mission. He watched as she scoured the dossiers and report findings intensely, annotating notes in the margins of the pages as she went along. The other mercenaries read through the documents as if it were a book they were about to discuss in class.
After a while, folders started to come down as the mercenaries finished reading. “Most of the information is on the Filipino group here in Cyprus,” Sacchini said as he threw his file packet onto a neighboring table. “We only have an overview on this Theo Kalopolis person.”