Sir John added a few more aerial surveillance photographs to those on the table and pushed these across towards Peace.
“That’s Copperton.” He tapped one of the large prints with a fingernail. “Clearly, these photographs were taken by a high-flying aircraft.”
Peace was aware of the American reconnaissance flights over South Africa.
Sir John continued, “We believe this is Van Rhyn’s hideaway, but more of this later. We have little to substantiate this tale, though it definitely demands investigation. That’s where you come in.”
“What about the gold bullion theft and Van Rhyn?” Peace asked.
Sir John pulled a face as he pondered the question for a moment. “I don’t know… we still know too little, but keep your eyes open. If we hear more, you’ll be informed immediately. Rather concentrate on Copperton for now,” he replied.
Peace had the feeling that he’d soon be leaving on the sunny trip VA had alluded to.
Chapter Two
“Peace, we’re giving you a new identity. You will be taking on the role of Lord Digby Brentwood.” The Vice Admiral spoke bluntly, indicating that the subject was not debatable.
Peace jerked his head up and stared at his boss.
“Lord Digby Brentwood! Good God, the man lost his marbles years ago! Nobody even knows what he looks like, he’s been hiding himself on his estado in Paraguay for so long. He’s a bloody raving fanatic. He never consorts with the coloured locals and only employs Whites on his plantations. What’s more, he gives support to extreme right-wing groups in this country! Hell, why would I want to take on his identity? He’s a bloody fascist! God, he probably has a few ex-Nazis in his employ — you know, the worst kind.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head — I agree,” Sir John replied. “The whole point of you impersonating him is so you can infiltrate Van Rhyn and his organisation. Hopefully, they’ll see you as one of them; white supremacy and all that.”
What the hell does that mean? Peace wondered, astounded by this unexpected proposition. “What about the real Lord Digby? Won’t he have something to say?”
The Vice Admiral chuckled. “Strangely enough, the recluse officially left his massive rancho on a protracted world cruise, not to be seen or heard of for at least six months. He is, in fact, a guest of Her Majesty’s government, although somewhat reluctantly, I might add.”
Again, Peace found himself wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean.
“What about being recognised?”
Sir John harrumphed, and then smiled.
“Unlikely. Actually, the man vaguely resembles you. Maybe somewhat older, but he is a fitness fanatic and doesn’t look his age. He’s blond, but our chaps will sort out your looks. You needn’t resemble him closely; nobody but his most trusted servants know what he looks like, and you’ll not be going anywhere near South America. Years back, while in the army, the man had a horrendous accident requiring surgery. His appearance is now different, and few people have actually seen how different. You won’t be seeing his fascist cronies either; they’ll remain no more than an association. You’ll be in South Africa.”
Clearly the bugger’s happy with the arrangements he’s made!
“Who the hell thought this lark up?” he asked, knowing it had to be a VA tactic. The remark certainly had the desired effect; it wiped the smile off the Vice Admiral’s face. Peace grinned when he saw his boss flinch. The VA chose not to respond.
“Your first job is to make contact with Van Rhyn,” said Fulton. “We can’t prescribe how you should do this, but we believe you should target the daughters. Lord Digby is said to be a very wealthy man.”
Sir John chuckled. “Peace, the expenditure revealed by your expense account over the years indicates that you were born to play the part. You should enjoy this. However, your supposed wealth alone won’t attract these women. In fact, you’ll have to be a little more ingenious. Also, Brentwood has, let’s say, a penchant for loose women, which shouldn’t be difficult for you to emulate.”
Bastard, Peace thought, but ignored the sarcastic statement; this was not the time to get into a verbal wrangle with his boss. Inevitably, the man would pull rank.
“How am I to make this unexpected public appearance?”
“Lord Digby has maintained his Military and Naval Club membership in St. James’. He was once a captain in the Royal Fusiliers, and when in London still visits his club. It assures him a degree of seclusion, as club members and staff are very sensitive to their fellow members’ needs, and loose talk about fellow members is not tolerated. That’s where you will discreetly enter the public limelight. The club has reciprocal arrangements with the Rand Club in Johannesburg, apparently the haunt of most gold mine magnates in South Africa. It’s extremely exclusive.”
Sir John took a sip of his tea.
“South Africa is in a state of disarray, what with the wave of enlightenment this de Klerk fellow has brought with him. Unbanning the ANC, releasing Nelson Mandela, and with the majority of Whites voting overwhelmingly in favour of free and fair elections. Contrary to general belief, most everyday Afrikaners are peace-loving people. Yes, they’re afraid of the Blacks, not as individuals, but of their numbers — die swart gevaar[1].” Sir John’s attempt at an Afrikaans pronunciation was atrocious even to the untrained ear. Luckily Peace had worked amongst these accents before. He permitted himself to smile, but listened intently.
“They believe they’ll eventually be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers and will be side-lined. It’s the fanatics who need watching. That includes some of their politicians, those out-and-out supremacists, a few in the top brass in the military, a smattering of industrialists, and of course, our friend Van Rhyn.”
There was a pause.
“Here’s another shocker. We all know the South Africans have developed the bomb, as have the Israelis; in fact, this appears to have been a combined project. They’ve manufactured several of these, but no one knows how many. With the cauldron rapidly approaching a boil, we’re wondering to ourselves, as are the Americans, what’s going to happen to the bombs? Imagine if the fanatics got hold of these — they could hold the world to ransom! They’ve also developed chemical weapons; they’re even assisting Saddam Hussein in this field in order to ensure that South Africa’s oil imports from Iraq will never be embargoed.
“Intelligence has it, from what source I don’t know, that Van Rhyn has established his own secret base. He proposes to launch strikes at various key targets in the event of de Klerk handing over the government to Black majority rule. The man even had the audacity to state publicly that this will not happen in his lifetime. He’s even set up a private aircraft museum, and guess what — he has retired Air Force aircraft that are able to deliver nuclear bombs, all in flying condition and maintained at considerable expense. Can you imagine the man’s bargaining power if he has the bomb?
“Furthermore, their RSA-3 is an orbital missile capable of carrying an explosive to anywhere on this planet. Fortunately, we don’t believe they have the technology to manufacture a nuclear weapon light enough to be carried by this missile. But believe me, the South Africans do not lack ingenuity; they’ll overcome this problem soon enough!”
Peace was dumbstruck at hearing this information. With that kind of influence behind them, the fanatics could start a full-blown war. Jesus, intercontinental missiles with nuclear warheads!
Sir John’s features softened for a moment.
“Geoffrey, I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but we don’t know much more than what I’ve just told you. Also, we haven’t yet decided quite how you should proceed. This information and the operation are highly confidential, and the more people we throw at it, the leakier it becomes.” He paused for a moment.
“You’re on a fact-finding mission, you’re not being sent to intervene. Have you got that? I’m not giving you backup at this stage. Well, not yet, but I’m working on something that could add to your cover. I’ve a female agent
. She’ll help you blend in; you know what I mean. She knows the country well. In fact, she grew up there.”
“The last woman you sent got killed!” Peace exclaimed.
“I know. I’m afraid that’s one of the risks.” Sir John shrugged.
“I’ve a conscience, although you may not believe it,” Peace said, clearly unhappy with this arrangement.
VA ignored his comment.
“You are to use the usual modus operandi when approaching any of our embassies around the world, and you’ll be given immediate assistance. If suspicions are raised regarding your identity, we’ll see that you get help. We need to know what their grand plan is, Geoffrey.” He said this in a kinder tone now, but still with sufficient emphasis to make his intention clear.
Peace nodded. Sir John’s use of his first name was not lost on him. The old man was concerned. He just hoped this wasn’t going to turn out to be a suicide mission.
Chapter Three
More than three weeks had passed since the meeting in Sir John’s office.
Peace, in the guise of Lord Digby, had used the reciprocal arrangements between the Military and Naval Club in London and the Rand Club in Johannesburg to stay overnight at the exclusive Johannesburg club for two days, after which he moved into a small estate on the fringes of Johannesburg’s northern suburbs. The grounds were huge, affording him absolute privacy. Little did anyone know, but it was actually a British Intelligence safe house.
By this time, he had become a familiar figure at the Club through frequenting it daily. As was expected within its hallowed walls, his arrival was without fanfare. However, word soon got around that he was on a fact-finding mission looking for investment opportunities and was particularly interested in the gold mining sector. The story was that he wanted a stake in the industry during this time of political turmoil when share prices were soundly depressed, as this would ensure him a handsome return. Furthermore, it was rumoured he believed that the Afrikaner would not simply allow the country to be handed to the Black majority without safeguards to ensure that the Whites remained the champions of industry and commerce for a long while to come.
Peace’s chauffeured Mercedes 500SE drew up outside the porte-cochère entrance to the club in the heart of the business centre of the city; the imposing multi-storey building taking up a large portion of a Johannesburg city block. The doorman opened the car’s rear door for him.
“Good day, Lord Digby,” the doorman greeted him quietly. Peace nodded.
It was already seven in the evening, the summer sun close to setting and the city centre empty of traffic. The usual afternoon thunderstorm had come and gone, the streets were still wet and glistening in the fading light and the air smelling clean and fresh. Already the cordoned-off area of private parking in front of the Club was lined with cars, the chauffeurs congregating in small groups smoking and chatting, their owners already within, having their first evening drink.
Peace’s pinstripe suit, black brogue shoes and snow-white shirt were enhanced by a silver-blue tie. He had dispensed with the waistcoat — these were not fashionable in South Africa, which pleased him immensely. He detested them.
The foyer was dominated by a huge carpeted staircase to the next floor, being wide enough to accommodate rush-hour traffic on the London Underground. He ascended the stairs.
Peace was pleased with himself. He had slipped into his new role easily, deftly handling the surprise at his sudden emergence into public life. He hoped to create the impression that although he may abhor the public and was a loner, he had no alternative but to visit the country in person, in order to establish first-hand what developments were taking place there if he were to make the investments he proposed. He needed to be accepted as a frequent visitor and his arrival not unexpected. Already, during previous visits to the club, he had been drawn into conversation by one or two of the members, clearly curious about him, his reputation as an ultra-right-winger preceding him. Since Van Rhyn visited the club when in the city to rub shoulders with his peers, the idea was to bump into him and be acknowledged as one of them.
Peace recognised the man immediately. Van Rhyn was sitting in a leather chair next to a large mahogany coffee table, a glass of what had to be very old Cape brandy next to him. He looked up and lowered the copy of the Financial Mail he was reading as Peace entered. This surprised Peace. The newspaper was definitely not right-wing but considered liberal. In the flesh, he appeared larger than in the photographs. He was tall; it was hard to tell when sitting, but he guessed at least six foot three, with a barrel chest that strained slightly against his pristine white, monogrammed shirt. His maroon silk tie was neatly knotted. His hair was dark with streaks of grey, cut short against his scalp and his ears were close against his head.
Peace took a chair at a coffee table no more than ten feet away from him. Van Rhyn glanced up briefly and then returned to his paper; he made no attempt at a greeting. Peace had an impression of eyes that were almost black and unfathomable. A thin moustache covered thin lips, and his narrow aristocratic face had high cheekbones atop a strong jaw.
A steward approached.
“Good evening, Lord Digby. A pleasure to see you again. Is there anything I can get you?”
Van Rhyn swung his head up and gave Peace an appraising look, a touch of amusement on his face.
“A single malt whisky with ice — Glenfiddich?” Peace asked the steward.
“I’ve got it, Lord Digby,” the steward replied, keen to please. Lord Digby’s tips were known to be more than generous.
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Van Rhyn looking at him.
“I’ve no intention of being presumptuous, but surely not the Lord Digby Brentwood?” Van Rhyn asked, his eyebrows lifted.
Peace smiled. “Unfortunately, the one and only. Please keep that between us.” Van Rhyn rose, his hand outstretched.
“Certainly, no word will pass my lips. I’m truly glad to meet you. I’m Anton Van Rhyn, chairman of Afrikaner Goudeiendomme. I had heard you were in town — you can imagine my surprise! It is said you shun publicity and the public. It is, therefore, indeed a pleasure to meet you in person, Lord Digby. From what the rumours say, it seems we share the same political sentiments.”
Peace withdrew his hand from the huge fist.
“Of course, and I have heard of you. Your country and its politics currently dominate the English tabloids. I’ve found your utterances on the proposed handing over of this marvellous country to the Blacks interesting. I must say, you express my views entirely.” Peace gave him a conspiratorial smile.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Van Rhyn replied, looking intently into Peace’s eyes as if seeking to read his thoughts. Seemingly satisfied, he continued. “There aren’t many who’d openly side with me. It seems we’re a dying breed. I believe some were born to lead and others to serve. As I recall, you said something similar in the past. Who would have ever believed that we’d succumb to the pressures of the world, with the British leading the charge for enlightenment? Would you care to join me?”
Peace took the proffered chair at Van Rhyn’s table. He was pleased with developments, never having thought he’d be able to meet his quarry so easily. The man may be an Afrikaner, but his English is impeccable. This was often the case where the sons of successful Afrikaners had been sent to English-speaking private schools. The Afrikaners were a resilient breed, staunch Calvinists with a clear distinction between right and wrong, and champions of industry. They were also very pragmatic and understood the benefits of an English-speaking education for their children.
“I’m honoured. Who could better advise me on investments related to the gold mining industry in South Africa?” Peace said, while thinking to himself, thank God for Englishmen and their damn men’s clubs. He briefly lifted his eyes to the ceiling — the good Lord certainly did work in mysterious ways. Hopefully, the same Lord would also look after him.
Chapter Four
Over the next few weeks, Peace and Van Rhyn met on a few occasions. These all seemed to be chance meetings, and all confined to the Rand Club.
Peace was impatient and found the intervals between their meetings tiresome but doggedly endured them, hoping for at least some form of business friendship to blossom.
He soon realised that the Afrikaner appeared quite taken with this English aristocrat who seemed to despise the proletariat, be they whatever denomination, colour, or creed. The gold-mining magnate commented that he liked the fact that Digby maintained a low profile and shunned any publicity, almost going to extremes to avoid any notoriety. From the gist of their discussions, it was obvious to Peace that Van Rhyn thought Lord Digby could be an asset who may be able to open doors for him in the British capital among those whose fortunes relied on old money, and who shared his views on the African continent. Several of their conversations touched on those Englishmen, they of the upper echelons of finance, industry, and society, who had voiced their misgivings regarding recent events in colonial Africa.
A few weeks after their initial meeting, Van Rhyn extended an invitation to Peace and his partner to join him and his associates for a black-tie dinner at his home in Waterkloof, Pretoria. Peace accepted, but declined the invitation to bring a companion.
Peace’s chauffeur-driven car stopped at the security gate in the upmarket suburb at exactly seven-thirty. The huge property was surrounded by a high wall which bore a seven-tier electric fence strung above it to deter any potential intruder. He was also not surprised to find two security guards manning the gates, dressed smartly in khaki uniforms, and obviously Afrikaners. They made no attempt to hide the holstered weapons on their hips. One approached the car with a clipboard in his hand. Peace glanced at the surveillance camera mounted on a pole facing the side of the car and realised that his photograph was being taken.
Per Fine Ounce Page 3