Per Fine Ounce

by Peter Vollmer

  Chapter Six

  The British High Commission office was housed in an imposing building situated behind the Union Buildings in Pretoria. The country was experiencing the last heat of summer as winter approached. The famous jacaranda trees of Pretoria had long lost their purple-blossomed glory, which heralded the arrival of spring.

  Peace presented himself at the information counter and slid Lord Digby’s passport across to the clerk. The clerk studied it wordlessly and then called a security man standing in the hall and asked that he show Peace to an office on the first floor. He was led through this office to another behind it. Unlike the areas frequented by the public, it was austerely furnished with only a steel desk with a high-backed swivel chair and a few steel cabinets. Other than a cheap calendar, there were no pictures. The single large window overlooked the back of the Embassy grounds. It was evident that this was double-paned one-way glass.

  A man in his shirtsleeves rose from behind the desk and stretched out his hand. His red braces and colourful bow tie seemed very casual, but this was perhaps merely to enhance his cover. It certainly seemed out of character, but the colours matched his ruddy complexion and the mass of unruly red hair.

  “I’m Thompson, your liaison man here. How do you do?”

  Peace took the proffered hand and merely nodded in greeting. “Why am I here?” he asked abruptly, still annoyed at having to travel all the way to Pretoria.

  “I’m afraid that’s the Vice Admiral’s doing. He insisted that you have some form of backup. They’ve assigned Sergeant Cherry Boxx, previously of Scotland Yard and now of MI6, to be your assistant. She’ll be with us in a few minutes; she’s been waiting for you. Actually, she arrived from London a few days ago.”

  “Cherry Boxx! A woman?” Peace raised his eyebrows. This has to be a stage name. “Where did she work before, Melissa’s House of Pleasure?”

  “Please, Commander, she’s a respectable woman,” Thompson admonished him, clearly shocked at Peace’s retort.

  Peace merely chuckled, shaking his head.

  “God, do I pick ’em!” he said as if to himself, wondering what Ms Boxx looked like. He knew it was futile to argue. What VA demanded had to be carried out to the letter.

  Thompson slid a copy of The Times across his desk towards Peace. “It’s the latest edition. Make yourself comfortable. Like some tea?”

  Peace shook his head. “Make it coffee, black, and I’ll take you up on the offer.”

  He was still engrossed in the paper when the door opened and a woman entered with Thompson just behind her. She was tall and dressed in a black two-piece suit with the skirt ending just above the knees. This was complemented by a white silk blouse and black high-heeled pumps. What struck him first was her long legs — they were shapely and tantalisingly well-proportioned. She was not conventionally beautiful, but had the allure of an attractive athlete; she radiated an aura of strength and stamina. Her suit buttons strained slightly, a sure sign of ample breasts beneath them. She had short black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to have a touch of Asian in them — they slanted slightly upwards and were hooded by artfully plucked black eyebrows.

  Peace rose from his chair.

  “Cherry Boxx, I presume?” he said, his hand outstretched. He could not disguise the smile on his lips as he fought the desire to laugh.

  She obviously did not miss this as there was no reciprocal smile on her strong mouth. Her full lips turned down and her dark eyes flashed as she turned to Thompson. “Tell the Commander that I’ll take none of his flippant disingenuous crap.” She had not taken Peace’s proffered hand.

  Peace spoke before Thompson could answer.

  “Cherry, I was merely being polite. Your remarks are inappropriate. You don’t mind me calling you Cherry, do you? No discourtesy was intended.”

  She harrumphed. “I don’t believe it, Commander. Your love of innuendo and your reputation precedes you. Be warned — I know your type. I didn’t volunteer to assist you; I was ordered to. That should give you some idea of my feelings.” However, she did eventually take his hand.

  What did she mean by that? Before he could say anything, she continued.

  “I’ve been properly briefed — ad infinitum, in fact.”

  Ad infinitum, what did that imply? Had his private life formed part of her briefing?

  “I’m to portray myself as your personal assistant and accompany you most of the time. The real Lord Digby always has a personal assistant at his side as you no doubt were made aware of by VA.” He recalled this was mentioned. “We are to play the part of employer and employee, and at all times the relationship must be strictly business.” This he also remembered, but still, VA’s insistence that it be a woman infuriated him.

  “You’ll do,” he replied tersely. What else was there to say? VA could be such an uncompromising, bull-headed prig, always doing things like this without consulting with his agents. He was probably trying to get even! However, he had no choice — VA was the boss.

  She shook her head slowly as she stared at him.

  “God, yes. You are the self-centred, heartless bastard they say you are.” She swung round and strode out of the room.

  “I don’t think you’re going to bed that one!” Thompson spluttered out and his eyebrows rose as the door closed forcefully behind her.

  “Bloody hell, do you think I’d want to? She’d probably assume she’s the boss and want to tell me how to do it,” Peace retorted.

  Thompson grimaced at the retort and refrained from further comment.

  “Is there anything else?” Peace asked.

  “Yes, there is,” he said and turned to a steel cabinet behind him, which he unlocked and withdrew from it a grey file with SECRET embossed diagonally on its cover. “This arrived yesterday with the request from VA that you read it. Thereafter, you are to contact the Vice Admiral on the phone. You can use my secure phone. I’m required elsewhere, but by all means use my office — make yourself comfortable, you won’t be disturbed.”

  Thompson left soon after and Peace settled down behind the desk. He opened the file and immediately noticed from the contents it was a copy file, the original obviously still with VA.

  There were a number of sharply defined photographs, clearly taken by a high-altitude recon flight since they were more distinct than the usual satellite images. These bore a USAAF stamp. The photographs showed a small town and with them was a detailed description of Copperton, a mining town in the north of the Cape Province in South Africa and a short distance from Prieska on the Orange River. It was situated on the edge of the Kalahari Desert amongst a collection of saltpans — some of which were huge, and one made famous by Donald Campbell during an attempt on the world land speed record. What was immediately evident, and even more so surprising, was the enormously long and wide runway. VA had recorded that it was asphalted and capable of handling the very largest of aircraft. This was truly an oddity and begged the question — to what end?

  Before Van Rhyn acquired the mine, this had been mothballed on and off for years. Van Rhyn resurrected it and introduced earthmoving and mining equipment and the personnel to operate this equipment. The people he used were from all over South Africa, but were mostly white Afrikaners he invariably employed on a fixed long-term contract basis. All the houses, town administrative buildings, and business premises belonged to the mine — no one was allowed to own any property. Van Rhyn attracted the people by offering good salaries and accommodation, with school, sport facilities, and goods and services at particularly low bargain prices, although the report said the applicants were subjected to a thorough and stringent vetting process. Copperton was, so to say, a self-contained economic world solely controlled by Van Rhyn.

  Miles of security fencing enclosed the mine, airfield, and town, and a strong, well-armed security contingent monitored all arrivals and departures. Copperton was a hot, dusty, and drab town without any tourist attractions and had no appeal for visitors. As it was situated in the most sparsely pop
ulated and near inhospitable area of the country, any persons arriving unannounced would immediately draw attention and be viewed with suspicion.

  While no definite proof existed, the British and Americans believed the stolen Russian neutron bomb had been acquired by a group of Afrikaner reactionaries who may have also usurped a few nuclear bombs from the S.A. Government’s arsenal. Nobody appeared to know how many bombs the South Africans had manufactured and the figure varied between six and eleven. The South Africans had yet to confirm a figure.

  Meanwhile, Thompson had returned unexpectedly early. Peace needed to speak to VA privately, so Thompson told him to use the scrambler phone in the adjoining office.

  He was soon connected with VA.

  “I’ve just read the Copperton file,” he said.

  “Hah, so I need not fill you in — you now know what I know. You will appreciate that it is of paramount importance we establish what Van Rhyn has secreted away in his hideaway. You need to go there, but please — try not to kill anyone in the process. That could only pre-empt matters.”

  Peace realised the Vice Admiral was not joking.

  VA continued. “I don’t know whether this can be done discreetly, but if they were to be suspicious, I’d rather they did not think it was us or the CIA. I’ve a feeling any strangers are going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “I know what you mean. Is that why you’ve assigned Cherry Boxx to me?” Peace asked.

  VA revealed a brief moment of humour as Peace heard a chuckle over the line. “I did think the name would intrigue you. Maybe you should masquerade as a married couple — what do you think?”

  Peace snorted, but did not take the bait.

  “All right, we’ll take a look, but I will need to have a satellite phone to stay in touch with you. You know, something secure. Can Pretoria assist?”

  “I’ll arrange it. Take it up with Thompson. He’ll provide everything you need — it has been so ordered.”

  “Oh, by the way, I thought it wise that you disappear for a while. I suggest you both assume new identities. Maybe a British tourist couple? We’ll have to think of a reason as to why you find yourselves in what is surely the arse-end of the world. Anyway, there’s time for that — you have a few days. Meanwhile, you can begin to prepare for the trip. Remember, it’s a desert and can get bloody hot. Actually, I’ve just realised Ms Boxx should look quite good in shorts.” VA chuckled.

  Peace sat there silently fuming. Bugger him! Always playing these damn I’m-one-up-on-you games. I will not give him the satisfaction of a response.

  VA continued. “Also, Thompson has arranged accommodation in Pretoria at some decent country hotel — quite upmarket, I gather. Oh, with a casino, I hear. That should suit you.”

  Oh, the bastard, trying to rub his nose in it! Amongst his peers, VA was known as a discreet, compulsive tables gambler, with roulette his speciality, but also a lousy loser. Peace did not play often, but when he did, he usually struck it lucky and was known to have a windfall or two — even when on assignment. This, he had heard, infuriated the Vice Admiral.

  “Good and thank you,” he replied. “I should be able to add to my fortune.”

  VA mumbled something about not using government funds and then ended the call.

  Smiling, Peace returned to Thompson’s office. He felt he had made a point.

  He was surprised to see Cherry had returned. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  Bloody inquisitive you are. I’m not going to let you get to me. “We’re to play a married couple and first spend a few days as tourists in some fancy hotel-spa-casino setup. Do some shopping, and spend some money — you know, be man and wife,” he said with a slight leer.

  She stared at him intently for a moment.

  He was sure she was formulating what she thought was the desired response to put him in his place and then seemed to think better of it, leaving him disappointed.

  Thompson interjected at that point. “I’ve already made the reservations and am starting the groundwork to have Peace’s, that is Lord Digby’s, whereabouts broadcast that he has returned to London on business for a while. That would be the Rand Club, his home, cook, housekeeper, chauffeur etc. — so I imagine all bases are properly covered.”

  Chapter Seven

  Peace asked Thompson that he rent a Toyota Prado four-wheel-drive station wagon under Peace’s new alias they would assume while on this trip. This was rented to ensure that nothing suspicious would be revealed should its origin be tracked. A slight modification was made and a compartment hidden in the dashboard where a small satellite phone was concealed. The only other equipment they acquired for him was a Heckler and Koch USP9 and for her a 9mm Sig. Both were automatics with removable silencers, the weapons specially provided by Thompson. After all, the idea was only to observe, not confront anyone. They also had a pair of 207 night binoculars and night-vision glasses.

  *

  Almost a week had passed.

  In possession of new identities, they left Pretoria in the early hours of the morning, ostensibly on their way to Cape Town via the Richtersveld in the Northern Cape, where Cherry — now playing the part of his wife — had been born in Britstown. Her father had been the South African Police station commander there. The family had immigrated to the UK in the late fifties when her father was overlooked for promotion, something he believed was due to his English ancestry. The Boxx family could trace their South African roots back to the MacDonalds, Williams, and Smiths — all British sailors who were shipwrecked on the hostile, northwest desert coast of South Africa. There were now many families in the Northwest who could trace their origins to these castaways. Surprisingly, there was an element of truth in this, as Britstown was her actual place of birth and her great-great-grandmother had married a shipwrecked British sailor.

  They drove the five hundred miles to Upington — the largest town in the western region of the country. It was located on the banks of the Orange River, which had its source in the highlands of Lesotho, a landlocked country, but close to the warm Indian Ocean. Although hundreds of miles from the highlands and situated in a vast semi-desert, Upington and the lands on the banks of the river, were extensively irrigated, and a double, mile-wide green band of fruit trees and vines shadowed every bend of the river.

  From Upington, they followed the road south until they eventually arrived in Prieska. From there they took a secondary road that led southwest into the Richtersveld, an area of sun-bleached stone and gravel interspersed with low scrub and small patches of dry desert grass, a flat landscape broken by kopjes[4], and sun-blackened rocky hillocks. The road had been built to connect Copperton with the main arterial highways. The only indication that there was a town at the end of the road was a forlorn sign on a shoulder-high pole with Copperton scrawled on it.

  “Not very exciting,” said Peace, in an attempt to make conversation. She ignored him, as she had done for the past twenty-four hours. He pulled onto the gravel verge, removed a twenty-litre container from the rear of the vehicle, and proceeded to pour the contents into the tank.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she asked. “We still have ample fuel.”

  “I’m adding some diesel to the petrol. It’ll make the engine misfire and smoke. I need to create a breakdown situation.”

  It obviously dawned on her what he was up to and she smiled. He noticed this — it was the first time she’d smiled during the entire journey.

  “Hmm, a good idea — even more surprising when coming from you,” she reluctantly conceded.

  The landscape around them was flat and with the sun blazing down relentlessly from a cloudless sky it was stiflingly hot, causing mirages dancing on the horizon. Although the vehicle was air-conditioned, it could barely keep the scorching heat from overwhelming them.

  Moments after they’d started again, the vehicle developed a slight misfire which progressively worsened. Soon it misfired continuously, losing power and trailing a cloud of blue smoke as it moved at a dec
reasing speed. Finally, the town appeared on the horizon — a scattering of buildings, and most painted white with silver corrugated iron roofs. Were it not for the mine, the town would never have come into existence. There was little else that could draw people to this location.

  The road through the centre was lined on each side by various retail establishments including a service station, a bank with a name indicating that it was an Afrikaner establishment, various small shops, and general dealers. A recently built school complete with dirt rugby field adjoined the main street. That the town had only recently come into being again was obvious — there were no tall trees. Peace noticed a small workshop that adjoined the service station, and from the number of pickup trucks in the yard, it appeared to have a large clientele.

  He swung the Prado onto the workshop’s concrete apron and stopped. Both of them then stepped out into the mid-afternoon heat. Normally, he would have expected to see Blacks and Coloureds, but was not surprised to see only the odd person as he recalled it being mentioned that the idea was to create a haven for Whites. He mentioned this to Cherry.

  She just shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “Who could believe such a thing in this country,” she said.

  They were both dressed in shorts, the colour chosen to blend in with the terrain. She wore ankle-high hiking boots with short socks, the top of which could just be seen peeking out of the boots. This had the effect of adding to the length of her tanned legs. She wore a simple beige T-shirt with a round-cut neck, low enough to reveal a hint of her breasts, and a khaki baseball cap from which her short-trimmed hair peeked. The overall effect, Peace thought, was admirable.

  He too was dressed in khaki shorts and shirt, with a slouch hat. His shoes were proper hiking boots, reaching to mid-calf. His tanned, well-muscled legs revealed a few white scars under the down of near-blond hair. He stepped into the shade of the petrol-pump forecourt overhang, his eyes needing a few seconds to adjust from the strong sunlight. A middle-aged man approached, wiping his hands on his sleeveless dirty green overall. Although he pretended to give Cherry an innocuous glance, Peace saw him take in her somewhat sexy attire. He pursed his lips so as not to smile.