by Larry Johns
I thought; Wrong again! I said, “So what does Motanga know?”
“Of our operation?”
“Of my operation. You’ll have to excuse my bluntness, mister Luang, but I’d say that your operation is pretty much an open book.”
Luang smiled. “Oh, it is not as bad as that, colonel. But you are excused. Of the mercenary operation, our source in the Motanga cabinet tells us that whilst he is aware of our aspirations in general, and that we are financing a sizable force, he is convinced, along with the British and the S.A.I. that we plan to move the day after tomorrow. At this moment in time Motanga is mobilizing his personal guard close to the Isanga valley, prior, we assume, to transporting it to Matadi.”
“Why Matadi?” I asked, trying to ignore an odd feeling of deja vu.
“Disinformation, colonel. That word again. We let it slip that Matadi was to be our point of entry. And it may further amaze you to know that Motanga obtained this information from his own agent within SAI.” He smiled happily, as if the whole system pleased him greatly.
“Jesus!” I said. “You’re walking through a goddam maze!”
“An occupational hazard, colonel McCann,” he nodded. “But a controllable one.”
“I hope you’re right.” Another impulse prompted me to ask, “Tell me, mister Luang, do you have anyone in S.I.S?”
“Here in the Congo?” he countered matter-of-factly.
“Wherever.”
A slight frown. “Why do you ask?”
I knew it was a point I should not push. “Just curious.”
He allowed a few moments to pass. Then he said, “I think it best that we each stick to our own brief, colonel; also with great respect. I told you those things because, to use an intelligence maxim, you needed to know. Beyond that...” He let it hang in the air.
I shrugged. “Fair enough.” None the less it was a question I could have used an answer to. I changed the subject. “Okay. That just about squares away the matter of your problems - I hope!” We exchanged smiles. “Now, how about the question of my second in command. Have you managed to locate Piet Vryburg?”
Luang seemed relieved to be on a new topic. “We have, colonel. He is at present in Uganda. I will see to it that his answer reaches you within seven days. Which leads us nicely to the question of communications...”
THREE
“Casa Bianca”, set in its own enclosed gardens, was a house of Moorish curved arch design. The living quarters formed a square around a small lawn, in the centre of which a tastefully ornate fountain played lightly over a marble moat, further enhancing the coolness of that most shaded area. The patio, which completely encircled the outside wall of the house, was a wide, marble-paved affair, liberally strewn with expensive garden furniture, and whose curved but low arches allowed stepped access to the landscaped and wooded main gardens, and provided ample cool shade at any time of day. The entire building had been finished in white pebbledash which, in another setting, might have appeared garish, unsubtle to the point of crudeness. But there, amongst the trees, with some of the arches all but covered with budding vines growing upwards out of colorful flower beds, the effect was one of quiet, unpretentious splendor.
The library of Casa Bianca was a surprising contrast to the rest of the house, with its marble inlaid floors and profusion of Persian and Italian carpets and hand-carved coffee- and occasional-tables, each of which boasted onyx cigarette boxes or mahogany or ebony carvings - here the stone floor was invisible beneath a thick-pile fitted carpet. And the two walls that were not packed bookcases in their own right, had been faced with oak panels and hung with small paintings, each with its own shaded lamp illuminating scenes of African wildlife. The chairs, three of them, plus the large settee, were of studded leather. The desk was of intricately-carved ebony. Its top, a frieze of life in some African village, was covered with a sheet of thick, smooth-edged glass to create the working surface. Now it was littered with maps and papers.
Seated at the desk, which was positioned slightly off-centre to utilize the light from the French windows, was a man of some sixty years. He was dressed in a light-weight tropical suit, his white shirt open at the neck. The pipe in his mouth, at which he sucked periodically, and his shock of slate-gray hair parted high up, lent him an air of fatherly solidity. His eyes, kindly yet with an edge of intensity enlivening them, carried the same message, as he leant forward over one of the maps, studying it minutely with the aid of a large magnifying glass.
The man who stood by the window, his back to the desk, wore light grey flannel trousers and a loose, short-sleeved sweater. On his feet he wore open-toed sandals, hand-made in buffalo hide. His skin was tanned a deep, uniform brown and his dark hair was close cropped. His name was Jan Bluthen, and for all intents and purposes, Casa Bianca was his property. The man seated at the desk was called Jean-Paul Winterhoek, and it was he who spoke.
“When do you estimate they will arrive at their destination, major?”
Bluthen turned from the window. “Difficult to be certain, sir,” he said, his accent heavy Afrikaans. “It depends upon how much difficulty they encounter, and whether they are left alone. If all goes well, though, I’d say three - four days.”
“Well,” said Winterhoek, easing himself away from the desk, “At least it begins, and not under the scrutiny of our British friends. We...” He tried to stifle a yawn but failed. “I beg your pardon, major. The journeys of the past few days appear to be catching up with me.” Winterhoek had made the flight between Brazzaville and South Africa - either Durban or Johannesburg, five times in the past four days, a crushing schedule that had denied him even the sight of a bed. “I was going to say that the next hurdle will be this man Vryburg, his second in command...Oh, do we still have problems with communications?”
“None at all, sir,” said Bluthen. “The new equipment you arranged for us has wiped out all possibility of surveillance and counter-measures; at least in the short term. We can now transmit a thirty second data-package in a single one second burst. Plus we have the satellite link of UHF.”
Winterhoek nodded. “This is good...” Again a yawn broke surface. Winterhoek shook his head in self-admonishment. “I am afraid I must yield to necessity, major, though I am expecting a message to come through from Pretoria very soon. When it does, would you have me called straight away?” He rose tiredly to his feet, replacing the magnifying glass on the map.
Bluthen preceded him to the door and held it open. “Of course, sir...” Then, as an afterthought, “What should I do about Trispen?”
Winterhoek paused at the door. “Ah, Trispen,” he said meditatively. Then he shook his head. “Do nothing, major. Let us trade courtesies with the honorable mister Luang.” He stepped forward, paused again. “Oh, we might attempt to withdraw...” He snapped his fingers. “What is the man’s name?”
“Reynolds, sir.”
“Yes. Reynolds. We might as well pull him out of the firing line. All gains, however minor, will be gratefully received, eh, major?”
Bluthen looked dubious. “Well, I’ll try, sir. But Luang keeps him well and truly under his nose of late. We have not been able to make direct contact with Reynolds for...well, not since you first returned to Durban.”
“I understand,” said Winterhoek, stepping out into the hall. “But do your best, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Winterhoek grunted and walked on, pausing again at the bedrooms corridor, as another huge yawn perpetrated itself upon him. When it had subsided he smacked his lips and muttered something Bluthen did not catch, and was not meant to. “Sorry about all this, major. But we must blame the Chinese, not I. It - Oh! I’ve just remembered something.” He stepped out of a beam of brilliant sunlight that arrowed into the corridor through one of the windows. “Sort out some additional personnel with Pretoria. These surveillances are stretching this station rather too thinly for my liking. Then turn your mind to what we might be able to gain from this man Vryburg; whilst we still know his wherea
bouts. Let’s try to keep one jump ahead at all times, eh?”
Bluthen raised his eyebrows and sighed a silent sigh. He said, “I’ll do that, sir.” He followed Winterhoek along the corridor. He could not understand how his superior was managing to keep track of all the angles. He himself felt like a fairground juggler, attempting to keep a dozen skittles in the air at the same time. And not succeeding. “Oh, this is your room, sir.”
Winterhoek nodded and reached for the door handle. “Any more word from Kinshasa?”
“Nothing, sir. You know that Motanga has codenamed the operation “Lion”, do you, sir?”
Winterhoek nodded and chuckled wanly. “Lion,” he repeated. “How very original. Still,” he added, his expression changing, “We have to hand it to the man for playing this thing so close to his chest. Most un-Motanga-like. One might even say professional.”
Bluthen wished the man would open the door, walk in the room, and get out of his hair for a while. He said, “That will be the British influence, sir.”
Winterhoek appeared not to have heard. He stood there for several moments. Then he said, “Devious thinking, major.”
“Sir?”
“For the final piece of the puzzle,” said Winterhoek softly. “We require a surfeit of devious thinking.” He turned. “Or, you do! Your mind is still fresh and reasonably uncluttered by all the latest developments. So, think deviously, major. Think: why would this man McCann suddenly switch allegiances? In my experience he is not a man to work in that fashion. A mercenary he may be, but he’s straight up and down, as modern parlance has it. I have a lot of time for him.” He shrugged lightly. “Though I’ve never met him, of course. Feel as though I have.” He was musing. Then he seemed to snap awake suddenly, “So why would he alter the habits of a lifetime now?”
“A better offer, sir? From the British, I mean.”
Winterhoek pulled a face. “Perhaps, but unlikely...that he would accept it! No, major, there has to be something else. Something we are missing completely. It has its roots in Jo-burg, I’m certain of that. But...what?” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “One of the prerequisites, major, is a clear, untired brain. Something I do not possess at present.” He opened the door at last. “Call me immediately you hear from Pretoria.” He hesitated yet again, adding with a bleak smile, “I confess that I will not be too disappointed if it’s later rather than sooner...A clear brain...” he continued, almost to himself, as he closed the door behind him. “A clear brain...”
*
Winterhoek was smiling as he replaced the telephone receiver in its rest. He glanced at Bluthen. “Major,” he said softly, yet with menace. “We deserve to have our backsides kicked.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Of course, dammit! Of course!”
“What is it, sir?”
Winterhoek clasped his hands over the desk and proceeded to crack his finger joints one by one. His eyebrows knitted as the smile disappeared. Bluthen was aware that the operation had taken a dramatic turn, but he could not begin to imagine the direction. Were they taking the offensive at last? Anything would be better that the spectator’s role they had been forced to adopt thus far. Winterhoek said, “A side issue, major. How could we have missed it?”
“Missed what, sir?” Winterhoek could be downright annoying at times.
Winterhoek looked hard into his face for a moment, obviously thinking deeply. Then he said, “The British agent...Walton!”
What the hell had Walton to do with Luang? Bluthen himself frowned. “Yes, sir?”
Winterhoek gave a sudden bark of laughter and slammed a clenched fist onto the desktop. “Hell fire and damnation! How many times have I drummed it into you, major? Never overlook the obvious! Because it’ll stab you in the back as quick as look at you!”
Bluthen, with some difficulty, restrained his impatience. Again he asked, “What is it, sir? What about Walton?”
“I’ll tell you what about Walton, major. We could not understand why the man had appeared in Jo-burg, yes? More to the point, we could not understand why he seemed to be keeping tabs on a group of teenagers, am I right?”
“Of course you are right, sir.” Internal affairs were not in Bluthen’s bailiwick, so his interest had been peripheral. He had assumed that the man was lusting after some young meat; it happened to field agents who had nothing urgent on their books. Even SAI men had been known to run rampant from time to time. “Is there a connection between him and “Lion”, sir?” The idea seemed ludicrous.
“Connection!” Winterhoek exploded. “I’ll say there’s a connection! And do you know who we must thank for it? I’ll tell you. Some fourth-grade trainee! While we were running around in circles, she - yes, a flippertyjibbet of a girl - decided, off her own bat, to look a little deeper. And do you know what she came up with? Whose name?”
“No, sir, I don’t!” said Bluthen irritably, even forgetting to add “sir” - an omission neither man noticed.
Winterhoek again hit the desktop. “Of course, you don’t! And neither did I. Didn’t even think about it! Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?”
“For God’s sake!” hissed Bluthen under his breath. “Get on with it!”
Winterhoek sucked in a breath and expelled it noisily. “One of those innocent and totally unconnected teenagers, major, is a girl called McCann! Karen McCann. How do you like that!”
“Kar...” Bluthen began, astounded.
“Exactly!” said Winterhoek, sitting back sharply in the chair.
Winterhoek had slept for something over four hours undisturbed, and had finally woken naturally, just as dusk was setting in. The call from SAI HQ in Pretoria had come through two hours later, the subject matter of which was to have been a computer run-down of all known foreign agents operating in both the Congo and Zaire. The news about Karen McCann had been a totally unexpected bonus, one that had blessed the business with a radically new dimension. As Bluthen had hoped, they were now taking an offensive line of their own.
Winterhoek rose from behind the desk and stepped briskly over to the French windows, peering out at the moonlit gardens. “Let’s take a stroll outside, major. I can think better on the move.” He slid open the door and stepped out onto the patio. Bluthen, his mind grappling with this latest addition, followed him out.
The air itself was cool and still, but filled with countless fluttering moths, attracted by the lighted windows. Bluthen quickly closed the door behind them. The moon, as yet low down in the evening sky, washed the trees a pale grey. Through the branches it was possible to see the broken patchwork loom of one of the lights on the outside wall. There was a crunch of a footstep on the gravel path and a shadowy figure stepped into view.
Bluthen waved. “All right, Kenneth...”
The figure gave a loose salute and a mumbled, “Yes, Nkosi,” then stepped back into the shadows to resume his rounds.
Bluthen followed Winterhoek down the steps and onto the dark-shadowed lawn. The high-pitched twitterings of the insect life dimmed slightly as they moved into the trees, then swelled back to its normal level as if some inner sense had told them that the intruders had just as much right to be there.
“Blackmail., d’you think, sir?” asked Bluthen.
“Of course,” said Winterhoek., slowing his pace to an amble. “Which enables us now to take a more considered guess at the Brit’s overall strategy.” He paused, a finger raised in the air. “Once bitten, twice shy, major. Before we go off half cocked, let us conduct a brief resume of events leading up to this...this most significant moment. And let us do it slowly, concisely, and chronologically...”
An hour later they were still wandering the gardens.
“Perfect terrain for an ambush, sir,” Bluthen was saying. “And you must be right; even a bombing strike on this Kanyamifupa place would not succeed totally. The worst damage Motanga could inflict, being realistic, would be a dispersal.”
Winterhoek flapped a hand in the air. “Besides which, major, of all the current protagonist
s, only McCann knows precisely where the damned place is. No, Motanga - plus the British, of course - was more or less obliged to allow McCann unimpeded access to some kind of staging area.”
“Yes, sir. And it would be typical of Aaron Motanga to insist upon something
fairly -very - spectacular, in exchange for the Mai-Ntombi Tract concession. The Americans offered vast sums for that; plus God knows what else. And he turned them down flat!”
“Quite. So the Brits wave a big stick at McCann’s daughter, which has apparently persuaded him to do something that goes very much against his grain...or why would they need the stick in the first place?”
“Oh, absolutely,” put in Bluthen, very much enjoying the game now.
“So, major...The meat of the matter. What if the Brits no longer had the daughter to wave their stick at? What if we had her?”
Several seconds passed as Bluthen considered this. There was a certain irony about the possibility that appealed to him. And it was very definitely the kind of positive move he had been waiting to get his teeth into. Then again, he reasoned, where would it get them? What would be the end result? At last he said, “But what would we gain from that, sir? The Brits would lose out, certainly. And probably the Chinese. Though, perhaps,” he shrugged, “only in the short term.” He quickly added, “But that was our original goal anyway. Wasn’t it, sir?”
“As you remark, major...And?” Winterhoek’s tone rose sharply to the question.
Bluthen knew he was missing something, but could not for the life of him think what it was. He sighed, shrugged. Winterhoek clucked his tongue. “Devious thinking, major. I’m always saying that. Now, come along. How can we gain the advantage?”
Bluthen thought hard. He had already realized that Winterhoek was way ahead of him, that their next move would already be mapped out in his mind. This was a game the older man played with those under him. Sometimes it could be downright irritating, others, it could be tutorial. An idea did spring into Bluthen’s mind, but he discarded it. Aaron Motanga hated the new South Africa administration with a passion. None the less, he said, “But Motanga would not deal with us, sir. Not under any circumstances I can think of.”