Presumably, he meant his eldest daughter, Peace thought. Janet must have already said something to him. Again, he wondered whether the rapport between them was a result of her father’s urging.
“Ah, glad you mentioned that. It reminds me, I need to say goodbye to Janet.”
He found her alone on the porch with a drink in her hand. As he approached, she turned and smiled.
“There you are. I’ve already been reprimanded by the lady of the house for not taking care of you.”
“Not to worry, I found your sister.”
“Hmmm, that should have been interesting — is she not too verkrampte for you English?”
“It was — she’s certainly not you,” he remarked.
“No, she isn’t. Are you leaving? Will we see each other again?”
“I hope so. Well, until then. Good night.” And with that, he pecked her on the cheek.
Peace’s chauffeur-driven car left the Van Rhyn grounds just after midnight to commence the thirty-mile drive to his rented estate. The car had been hired to Lord Digby Brentwood through an international car rental business and the booking made from London. The same applied to the rental of the house. Peace had employed the chauffeur from an employment bureau providing temporary staff to overseas tourists and businessmen visiting the country. Martin, the chauffeur, was a Coloured. He wore a suit, not a uniform and cap, so as not to appear ostentatious. This suited Peace; he did not want to attract too much attention, though he was still aware that he needed to play the part of Lord Digby.
They had driven no more than fifteen minutes when Martin spoke quietly, in strongly accented English.
“Sir, I believe there is a car following us. I’ve noticed that it has been behind us for quite a while now,” he said, his eyes catching Peace’s in the rear-view mirror.
“Are you sure?” Peace turned to look out of the rear window. There was a car behind; he couldn’t make out the model.
“Yes, it’s been behind us since we left the Van Rhyn estate.”
At this time of the night? The driver had to be right, Peace thought. Was Van Rhyn checking on him or was he out to establish precisely where he lived?
“Speed up, but don’t make it too obvious.”
He felt the car accelerate, the distance between the two cars widening. They were on the turnpike heading in the general direction of his estate.
“Take the next off-ramp and pull into the first service station that has an overnight one-stop shop on the premises,” said Peace.
The car followed the slip road and pulled up at a service station with an all-night convenience store leading off the forecourt.
“Stop here.” Peace pulled a banknote from his money-clip. “Go in and buy anything you want, meanwhile I’ll watch,” he said, keeping an eye on the road. A car passed, travelling quite slowly, the occupants trying to look unobtrusively at the garage forecourt. It was the same car, a white Toyota Camry.
Damn! What to do now? He didn’t want to arouse suspicion, but he needed to ensure that he was not under continuous surveillance.
He watched as the car pulled up next to the curb about fifty yards beyond the driveway to the service station. He knew that they would have seen that the chauffeur was not in the driving seat, and would probably have assumed that the man was in the convenience shop. He had no doubt that the two men in the car were Van Rhyn’s henchmen. Nobody else would have had reason to put a tail on him. It was time he let them know that he did not take kindly to that.
He opened the door and climbed out on the street side of the car, knowing that he was being observed. He walked nonchalantly towards the Toyota, approaching it on the driver’s side. He knew that the tactic would cause some consternation in the car. As he was drawing abreast of the door, he noticed it was ajar. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a Smith and Wesson MXP 9mm automatic, a compact handgun, which nestled below his armpit in its suede leather holster, and then grabbed the door handle and jerked it open. Before the driver had a chance to react, Peace pressed the silencer on the end of the barrel hard against the man’s temple. The man froze.
“Tell your friend that if he moves, you’re dead!” Peace spat, applying a little more pressure to the man’s head. “You’ve been following me — what’s the interest?”
“We weren’t following you.”
Peace swiped the barrel of the automatic across the man’s skull. Blood immediately flowed. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
The other occupant seemed about ready to make a move. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Put your hands on top of the dashboard and keep them there.”
“I swear we weren’t following you,” the man said in guttural English. He cringed, as if expecting to be struck again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Peace saw his chauffeur returning to his car.
“Give my compliments to your boss, whoever he may be, and tell him that I don’t like being followed. Understand?”
The man, evidently dazed, gave a barely perceptible nod.
Peace took two steps backwards. The silenced automatic coughed twice, the sound no louder than a dog’s bark. Air hissed out of the front roadside tyre and the vehicle settled closer to the ground. “That’ll keep you,” he added, and then carefully backed towards his car.
He climbed into the rear of the Mercedes, still keeping a sharp eye on the Camry. “Okay, Martin, just take us home, but at a sedate pace.”
The expression on Martin’s face said it all. He was obviously amazed at the sudden turn of events.
“I need you to listen carefully. I don’t want this repeated to any others — not your employer or colleagues. Not a word. Is that understood?”
“Sir, my employer expects me to be discreet. Absolute discretion is one of his mottos. I give you my word.”
“In that case, you’ll get a good bonus when I leave the country, so long as you realise that this is conditional.”
“But, sir, if they report the shooting, the police will investigate.”
“No, they won’t.”
“As you say, sir.”
Why had he been followed? What could have made them mistrust him? He didn’t understand it — surely no one knew his real identity.
He decided he would just let it be for a while.
Chapter Five
The harsh treatment of the two in the Camry did not serve as a deterrent. Peace soon realised that his every movement was being observed. The moment his vehicle left the estate, a tail would materialise and follow, keeping a discreet distance.
He ran into Van Rhyn several times at the Rand Club, and they invariably sat together. They were often joined by other members — friends of the magnate who were also involved in the gold mining industry. In time, Lord Digby was accepted as one of them and listened, without objection, to their discussions about the movement of gold shares and their current volatility.
Guided by Van Rhyn, he had made substantial purchases of gold mining shares over the weeks, and the magnate’s suggestions had noticeably increased the worth of his script holdings. Peace wondered what VA thought of this, the enemy adding profit to Her Majesty’s coffers! Rather amusing, he thought. He might not be a gambling man, but this was not an opportunity to be ignored. He realised that this was illegal, no more than was insider trading, but who was to report them?
About a week or so after the dinner at the Van Rhyn estate, he phoned Janet. She sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him.
“What took you so long?” she teased. Her familiarity surprised him.
“I got caught up in a number of things,” he offered.
“So I gathered from my father. You’ve been following his advice on the stock market and making a substantial profit, it seems. I can excuse you for that.”
He asked her out to dinner, reiterating that she needed to choose the restaurant as she had better local knowledge.
“When do you propose we do this?”
“How about Friday?”
“Now, if
I were a lady, I would have to decline and tell you that I wasn’t free until sometime next week,” she replied, laughing. “But to be honest, Friday is fine. You can collect me at my father’s Riverside home in northern Johannesburg round eight.” She gave him the address. “Casual dress will be fine. Don’t bother with a tie.”
Peace replaced the phone, pleased with himself. The date was sooner than he’d hoped.
He left the Rand Club later than he expected that night, and it was eight-thirty when his car entered the estate’s driveway. His house was in darkness. He recalled it was Wednesday, the staff’s day off. Well, it was going to have to be a light snack — that was the arrangement. He did his own thing in the kitchen on a Wednesday.
“Martin, that’s it for today. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said to the driver.
He watched the car’s lights disappear down the driveway and climbed the few steps to the front door. As he stepped inside, his nose caught a fragrance he knew he had smelled before, but couldn’t place it. Somebody — he was certain it was a woman — had been or was in the house. He was unarmed; carrying a weapon could have given his cover away. During the day he had visited a number of mining houses and with the prevalent tense political situation, many businesses had installed metal detectors.
He moved slowly towards a table in the corner of the foyer near the front door and quietly slid open the single drawer in its side. Out of habit, he ensured a weapon was always close by the front door when taking up a new residence. It was a form of insurance — you never know who could arrive at the door. He had also ensured the drawer would slide open and close silently when he had placed the Heckler and Koch automatic in it. He withdrew the weapon and silently slipped the safety catch off. There was only the faintest click.
Standing in the centre of the foyer, he waited as his eyes adjusted to the dark, fully alert for anybody trying to rush him from the shadows. He stood there for a full minute before moving towards the sitting room to his left. He could now vaguely make out the furniture and windows. The curtains were drawn, letting in no light. Fortunately, the house was carpeted wall to wall and he was able to move silently. He passed through the double door entrance and reached for the main light switch. He flicked it on and immediately the two chandeliers bathed the room in bright light.
Janet sat on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of what he guessed to be vodka and orange juice in her hand. A black cocktail dress left little to the imagination, the plunging neckline affording him a generous view of a curve of her breast. The skirt was short and the hem rode high on her thighs, exposing long, crossed legs. From the toe of one dangled a black pointed stiletto. At the sight of the automatic pointing at her, she merely raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“My, my, a gun? I was hoping you’d be pleasantly surprised,” she said, with the faintest of smiles.
The barrel never wavered as he let his eyes roam slowly over her.
“How the hell did you get in? The place was locked,” he said, still staring at her. He slowly lowered the automatic.
“Your cook, or whatever she is, let me in. Are you sure she’s no more than a cook? Anyway, I persuaded her that I wished to surprise you. It took a while, but she finally agreed. Confidentially, she told me that you did not appear to like women, as you’ve never brought one home. I must say I found that rather difficult to believe. You didn’t strike me as being… you know.”
Peace saw she was finding it difficult not to laugh.
“God, I’m going to have to do something about security,” he said.
“Don’t be hard on her. Her intentions were good.”
“Okay, I won’t, but only because you’ve asked. What are you doing here?”
“Why are you still holding that damn thing? It makes me nervous. You can put it down. I’ll remove my clothes if you insist; you don’t need the gun to persuade me.” She smiled again, this time seductively. “To be honest, I couldn’t see the point of waiting until Friday, and I knew you’d finally agree. I’m known to be quite persuasive.”
He chuckled and placed the automatic on a nearby side table. “I may take you up on that offer, but I think we should eat first.”
“Oh, I’ve even thought of that. I remembered you’d said you’re fond of lobster, so I brought tails in mayonnaise, plus a salad and a chilled Riesling to go with it.” She indicated a large wicker picnic basket that rested on the floor next to the sofa. “Before you change, please open the wine.”
She handed him the corkscrew. He extracted the cork and poured the wine, then climbed the stairs to the master bedroom and quickly changed.
When he returned to the sitting room, she’d already found plates and cutlery and was dishing up the tails and salad. She handed him a plate to which she added a freshly buttered roll. The food was exquisite, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke.
“Digby, you’re an enigma.” She hesitated for a moment. “No, that’s not quite right, let me put it differently… oh, by the way, you did say I should call you Digby, didn’t you?”
He nodded his head. “And you, woman, are unfathomable.”
“Unfathomable? That’s how it should be. Now, just imagine how I see it. You step into your own home with a gun in your hand. Were you expecting trouble?”
Again, he just shook his head. He was still wary. What was she up to?
“Men with guns intrigue me. It’s so masculine, and that gun is large, not a little peashooter like that British fellow we see in the movies,” she laughed, the ambiguity of her comments not lost on him. “Come, sit next to me. You know, the way you addressed me as woman, it conjures up something wanton.”
Janet sounds triumphant — as if we are playing some sort of game and she is winning.
He placed his wineglass on the coffee table and sat down next to her. Her scent drifted to him and a sideways glance allowed him a glimpse into the deep vee of her dress. He could clearly see her breast, not constrained by a bra, the areola visible, and the nipple just hidden. He drew in his breath involuntarily. A slight tingling sensation, that prelude to a sexual encounter, flowed through him.
“I’m watching you, you’re getting distracted,” she said, her voice throaty. She leaned towards him and he responded immediately, their tongues probing each other in a passionate kiss as she fell back, her head resting on the sofa’s armrest. He slid his hand into her neckline and pushed the material aside, lowering his head to take the erect nipple in his mouth. She moaned and arched her back, thrusting up at him. Her cocktail dress had ridden up, the hem now barely covering her. He let his hands drop between her thighs, immediately aware of the warmth that radiated from her even before his fingers slid into her.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Clothing crumpled to the floor. He ran his lips over her as she groped for him, her fingers finding his hardness.
“Please, my Lawd,” she mimicked a Cockney accent, “don’t dawdle.” She thrust her tongue in his ear and ran her nails down his back.
Suddenly she drew her head back.
“My God, what are all these scars? They look like bullet wounds.” She moved her hands over the skin of his chest.
“Sorry about them. I know they’re ugly. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. I was in the army, the Royal Fusiliers. I did time in Malaya — had a bad experience there.”
She raised her pelvis to receive him and he entered her. Within minutes, they were bathed in sweat, her breath rasping in his ear as her hands clawed his back, evidently consumed by some urgent primal need, which seemed to flow from her as though she wanted it to devour him as well. It was not long before he rolled off her, drawing in deep gulps of air.
She too was breathing heavily, the magnificent swathe of hair covering part of her face. “My God,” she whispered, “you do that well.”
They said no more, but just lay there and he felt himself getting drowsy. God, he thought just seconds before they both fell asleep, this woman has everything — wealth,
power, brains, and a degree of rampant sexuality seldom encountered.
Sometime during the night after a post-coitus drink and snack, they retired to the bedroom — the sofa not conducive to a good night’s sleep for two.
*
He awoke to the deep growl of a sports car’s exhaust coming from the back of the house. It struck him that she must have hidden her car well. He had not noticed it when he returned the night before.
The bed was empty; she had deserted his lair. It crossed his mind that he had just bedded a fiercely independent woman with a mind of her own. Somehow, he also knew that she was deadly dangerous, like a cornered leopard. She was one who always had to be in control. He couldn’t imagine life ever being boring in her company.
The cook and maid had already arrived. He carefully inspected his personal items, the cupboards in the dressing room, his briefcase, and desk drawers. He smiled to himself. His possessions had been meticulously examined and professionally replaced, exactly as they had been. Clearly, the Van Rhyns were taking no chances. They were still establishing his bona fides — they trusted no one and still wondered whether he was the person his public reputation made him out to be.
At around nine, the phone rang.
“Sorry about my sudden departure, but I’m not a morning person. However, I had a wonderful evening. We must do it again,” she said.
“When do you propose we do that?” he asked, realising that just the sound of her voice had aroused him.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going away with my father for a few days — a week or more actually, but I’ll be in touch.”
“I take it our dinner date is off?”
“I’m afraid so. Business. My father’s call.”
“Phone me on your return,” he replied casually, silently noting that she had not indicated where she was going.
His breakfast was interrupted once again by a call from his broker confirming the purchase of a particular bundle of shares. This was a coded message from MI6 telling him that he was to call on the British Embassy in Pretoria as soon as possible.
Per Fine Ounce Page 5