Per Fine Ounce

by Peter Vollmer

  “She’s still in a bad way,” the orderly murmured softly, apparently anticipating his question. His heart sank — clearly, she was still near critical. The captain had said she would pull through, but it seems the orderly, being a medical man, was being more cautious.

  Peace nodded his head. He was consumed by an intense desire for a reckoning with the Afrikaner. He resolved that he would get that opportunity, even if he had to hatch his own plan. Abruptly, he turned and left the infirmary, overcome by an urge to put some distance between him and the suffering of this woman for whom he could do nothing to help.

  He went back down the passageway towards the control centre, where he found the First Officer who had the watch. The man greeted him with a nod.

  “Anything happening?” he asked.

  The officer shook his head. “No, sir, all is silent. The salvage boat’s still there, but it seems they’re all asleep.”

  “Do you know whether they were able to find any of the gold?” Peace asked, patting his pocket for a cigarette, and then realising he had none.

  “Can’t smoke here,” the officer said indicating a No Smoking sign on the wall. “If they did, it couldn’t have been much; our chaps were out there again to stop them. I believe we’ve recovered most of it.”

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “As soon as it’s light, we’ll be out there again.”

  “That’s good. I don’t want those bastards to get a thing,” Peace said vehemently through clenched teeth, thinking again of Van Rhyn and Cherry.

  Later that morning Peace was preparing to join the scuba divers and assist, but the captain intervened and would not permit it. “Look, Commander,” he said, “I realise that this is your show, but really, what’s the point? Let my lads deal with it, there aren’t many bars left anyway. Besides, the tug’s crew will probably not make another attempt.”

  Peace had to agree — after all, this was their boat.

  During the day, the scuba divers returned with the last of the ingots. It was soon apparent that they had not salvaged all the gold; at least a third was missing. Either they were buried in the sand and seaweed, the metal detectors unable to reveal them, or more likely, Van Rhyn’s men had managed to retrieve these. He thought it highly probable they would have stumbled on a few of the ingots.

  He sought out the captain. “Captain, I’d like you to put me ashore this evening.”

  The captain raised his eyebrows at Peace’s request. “Commander, is that wise? What do you propose to do?”

  Peace told the captain about the hunting farm which Van Rhyn owned near the Etosha Pan in the northern part of the country, about two hundred miles from Terrace Bay. “His daughter’s there and I’m sure that is where the lost ingots will land up. Besides, I’ve a job to do and a score to settle.”

  “I understand,” said the captain. “How do you propose to get there? Surely not on that damned quad you’ve mentioned?”

  Peace chuckled. “I’ve a vehicle as well as a few other interesting items on shore. I’ll think of something. Just look after Miss Boxx, I feel responsible for her.”

  That wasn’t quite true; he felt a good deal more than responsible, and dreaded anything else happening to her.

  “By the way,” he added, “if you can raise an antenna this evening, I’d like to contact London.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

  *

  Peace spent the rest of the day on the submarine, seething with impatience and waiting for nightfall. At around five in the afternoon, one of the crew operating the hydrophones reported the arrival of the helicopter on the salvage vessel. This then left an hour later. Peace knew that this had to be Van Rhyn leaving the ship, no doubt with the few ingots they’d managed to salvage. Considering the helicopter’s short range, he thought it had to be making for the farm. Shortly thereafter, they heard the salvage boat raise its anchor, followed by propeller noises as it departed.

  The submarine did not surface since it was still well within South African waters. However, the captain risked floating an antenna-buoy to give them immediate satellite communication. The communications officer made radio contact through COMCEN, the Royal Navy’s Communications Centre, who patched the call through to Sir John. Of course, the communication was scrambled.

  VA started by commending Peace and Cherry for managing to salvage most of the gold and then asked where Van Rhyn was. Peace mentioned Van Rhyn flying back and forth between the salvage tug and his farm. Also, he volunteered ideas on what he thought Van Rhyn would do and that he was contemplating going after him, since he was sure Van Rhyn had to be on his Namibian farm. He told Sir John that Cherry had been seriously wounded and that she was in the sub’s infirmary.

  VA cleared his throat, but remained silent for a second.

  “Sergeant Boxx’s condition is of major concern and I’m awfully sorry to hear this. However, I’m sure she’s receiving the best attention the Navy can give her. I think it’s best she remains on board until the sub’s returned home. Please tell her we all wish her a rapid recovery. What do you think we should do? Do you really believe going to the farm alone is a good idea?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. It’s clear that Van Rhyn is the kingpin — do away with him and hopefully, the pack of cards will collapse.”

  “You’re right. Killing Van Rhyn will definitely bring them up short. Those bombs are another matter and as you say, we will have to deal with them, but how to do this without creating an international furore? However, that is something we will deal with on our side.”

  Seldom did VA ever imply the required demise of an enemy by using the word ‘killing’; at worst he’d use the word ‘eliminate’. This was definitely a new development; the man wasn’t mincing his words or intentions. “What exactly do you propose to do about this man and his associates?” he then asked.

  Peace proceeded to explain his plan.

  “He’ll have his daughter with him, you told me so,” said VA. “What about her?”

  Peace wondered whether he was aware of his sexual liaison with the woman. Briefly, a picture of Cherry in the infirmary came to Peace’s mind, strengthening his determination. “I’ll do whatever is necessary,” he replied resolutely.

  There was a second’s silence.

  “Yes, I believe you will. You’ve a satellite telephone. Make sure you stay in touch. Godspeed.”

  With that, VA ended the communication and Peace handed the instrument back to the sailor.

  The captain smiled stiffly at Peace. “Well, Commander, I gather that’s settled, you’re going ashore. I’ll have my men ferry you in an inflatable. It’s already dark out there, so I doubt anyone will see you. I’d like to have my boat miles from here in deep water before daybreak. Shallow waters as treacherous as these make me nervous.”

  The submarine surfaced, rolling gently in the swell. Surprisingly for this area, the wind was light, but then it was past midnight. With a brief farewell and thanks, Peace left the submarine. The naval outboard attached to the stern of the submarine’s Zodiac was muffled and surprisingly quiet. The helmsman expertly navigated the shallows, avoiding the incoming breakers, and deposited the boat high on the shore of the cove on the incoming wash of a small wave breaking before them. Peace jumped ashore clad only in borrowed civilian clothes. Nothing revealed that he’d just come from a British naval vessel.

  Everything appeared to be as they had left it when they had last launched the Zodiac. He registered he had the whole bay and its small settlement to himself, as there was not a light to be seen.

  Peace realised Van Rhyn had to know that part of the gold recovery from the seafloor had to have been directed from the shore, the Zodiac they had plucked from the ocean certainly proof thereof.

  Van Rhyn did not strike him as the type to simply leave without trying to exact some sort of revenge. He wondered whether the magnate had not dropped a few men off when flying over the bungalows. Surely, he had to know the bungalows were being u
sed as a base? They could kill anyone there, even burn the bungalows to the ground and no one would probably know for days or weeks since the place was so isolated.

  Peace was not about to take a chance.

  With the moon casting some light around him, he cautiously approached the bungalow, circled the structure once, and then entered armed with an automatic, a Browning Hi-Power 9x19mm Parabellum given to him by the submarine captain, in his hand. In this uninhabited remote area, doors were never locked. All was as they had left it. He purposely bent down and peered under the sofa. The sniper’s rifle was still where he had hidden it. Clearly, nobody had been there.

  He hesitated just before entering the kitchen as the faintest of sounds came from somewhere near the bedroom area. He froze entirely.

  Moonlight shone through the open curtains in the lounge. There was no way he was going down that passage and making himself a perfect target by being backlit. Well, not until he was sure he was alone.

  Keeping a wary eye on the passage, he slowly made his way to the kitchen where he knew there were three kerosene lanterns and a flashlight on the windowsill. He lit two lanterns, which cast sufficient light to illuminate the lounge and kitchen area.

  Peace found a dark shadow and took up position. Do I wait it out or flush him out? He knew all the windows were barred, and there were only two exits — the front and back doors. Whoever was there had to use the passage.

  A quarter of an hour passed and he had heard no further sounds. It was obvious he would have to flush the person out, but how?

  Moments later, an idea struck him. He locked the front door and extracted the key. The door was sturdy and it would be difficult to break out through it.

  In the kitchen, he used a knife to unscrew a hose-clamp around the plastic pipe from the gas-bottle to the gas stove. He opened the valve and worked the round grip on the top of the valve loose, leaving just the shaft exposed. He grabbed the pipe and pulled it off the valve, and was rewarded with the hiss of escaping gas. He quickly left the kitchen through the back door and closed it behind him.

  Initially, he considered shouting a warning, not yet convinced the intruder was one of Van Rhyn’s group. He was pretty sure the intruder would have realised he was up to something but, of course, probably would never have guessed he proposed blowing the building sky-high. He knew from past experience that when you have the upper hand in a stand-off, waiting was the best course of action — invariably they would make the first mistake.

  A minute or so later, something unintelligible was shouted from the interior of the bungalow. This was repeated seconds later.

  “English, please,” Peace shouted and shifted his position but still remained close to the door.

  “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!” he heard. The accent indicated the man was an Afrikaner.

  “Just do everything slowly,” Peace shouted back.

  He watched the back door open. A man stepped out with his arms raised. He was a White, dressed in what appeared to be a khaki uniform and canvas boots. He also wore a type of pea-jacket.

  Peace stepped out from behind a brick-built barbeque.

  “Stop — don’t move. Keep your arms raised,” Peace said.

  With his automatic trained on the man, he slowly walked round to his back and patted him down for weapons. He removed a military issue automatic from the man’s belt-holster.

  “Were you dropped off here from Van Rhyn’s helicopter?”

  The man did not reply and instead stared sullenly at Peace.

  “Listen, you better talk,” Peace said firing a shot into the ground between the man’s feet.

  The man instinctively jumped with a yelp. “Moenie skiet nie![13]” he shouted.

  Peace raised the pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.

  “Yes, he dropped me off. I was to wait for you to return from the sea. I was ordered to shoot you.”

  “Shoot me,” Peace mused. “Didn’t seem to work out, did it? Tell me, how many gold bars did they find?”

  “Not many, about fourteen, I think,” the man stammered.

  For a brief moment Peace felt a feeling of satisfaction — fourteen gold bars were only a fraction of the load. That is, if the number of gold bars mentioned at the initial London briefing was correct.

  “What to do now?” Peace asked.

  The man was now a caricature of fear. “Are you going to kill me?”

  Peace looked left and right — first at the empty sea and then the barren desert, knowing that the dune sea started a mile to the east. There really was nowhere to escape to.

  “If I don’t, the desert will kill you within a day or two.”

  Peace could see his prisoner probably thought that his last moments had arrived, since his bottom lip was quivering and his hands shaking.

  “Start walking — don’t look back,” Peace said. “Now!”

  The man turned and shuffled off, not turning around.

  “If I see you again, there’ll be no talking — I’ll shoot immediately. You’d better remember that,” Peace shouted and watched the man for five minutes until he disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Peace reversed the Land Cruiser out into the open and activated the satellite phone as well as switching on the scrambler attached to it. He punched in a number that he had memorised and was soon talking to a colleague in MI6, one of those in the communications centre deep within the bowels of the Victoria Embankment in London where phone calls and transmissions were monitored around the clock.

  He requested that he be given exact coordinates for the farm owned by Van Rhyn. If they did not have these on hand, they were to do whatever was necessary to get these as soon as possible. He advised his colleague that the coming and going of aircraft and helicopters would have been noticed in that area and that the whereabouts of such a farm had to be common knowledge amongst the locals as well as the rangers of the Department of Fauna and Flora at the nearby Etosha Pan Game Reserve.

  Besides, the civilian flights to the farm by the Van Rhyn family would have required the air controllers in the country to know its exact coordinates. The location of a farm owned by such an affluent family could hardly be kept a secret in such a sparsely populated area. He ended by saying he would make contact again during the course of the next day.

  *

  He knew the general direction in which the farm lay and at first light loaded the quad cycle into the rear of the vehicle, with some difficulty. He strapped the Heckler and Koch automatic in its special holster to his thigh. Both the MP5 machine pistol that fired NATO 5.56mm calibre ammunition and the sniper’s rifle rolled in a blanket, he placed on the rear seat. He thought it unlikely in this remote region and the isolated roads on which he’d be travelling that he’d be stopped and searched by any police or army patrols. He took a rug off a bed and used this to cover the weapons.

  The road was no more than a track that led over a stretch of dunes, disappearing and reappearing in the undulations as it headed eastward. The sandy coastal plain then gave way to kopjes — hilly outcrops of rock dotting the desert — then into rocky terrain, all devoid of vegetation. In the distance, a good fifty miles away, he could see a range of mountains on the horizon. They were the home of the Ohahimbas, a nomadic tribe always on the move with their cattle and goats in search of grazing. He was making for Sesfontein on the Khowarib River, which would be his first stop. The only way there was to follow the track in the dry riverbed, which wound its way through the hills and mountains to the sea.

  As he approached the low mountains, he often had to resort to four-wheel-drive as the sand was thick and threatened to bog down the heavy vehicle. The sun beat down relentlessly — the temperature outside the vehicle was well in the high thirties and the vehicle’s air-conditioning barely able to cope.

  He arrived in Sesfontein just after four in the afternoon. The settlement was no more than a small collection of a few flat-roofed buildings, which lined the road for a short distance.
It had derived its name from its six fountains. The abundant water and shallow water table had created an oasis of green and trees, which was in stark contrast to the surrounding semi-desert. The country’s national flag fluttered on a solitary flagpole in front of one of the buildings, which had to be the police outpost. At the sound of the vehicle, a few faces appeared in the doorways, no doubt curious to see who the new arrival was.

  He climbed out of the vehicle and stretched to ease his cramped muscles. A uniformed police officer in blue shorts and tunic approached from the station.

  “Dag, meneer[14],” he said in greeting, his dark tanned face breaking into a smile.

  Peace realised that he was being greeted, and responded with a, “Good day, sir.”

  “Oh, you don’t speak Afrikaans,” said the officer in broken English. “Where are you from? I see you’ve come from the west, you know, the Skeleton Coast.”

  “Terrace Bay, actually.”

  “Have you got papers?”

  “I have.” Peace pulled the permit from his breast pocket.

  “You are alone?” the man asked, clearly surprised to see that Peace was not accompanied.

  “Yes, I’m alone. I’m on my way to Otjivasondo, a farm near the Etosha Park where I’m meeting a few friends. We were two, but my companion returned to Swakopmund with another crowd when she became ill. That was at Terrace on the coast.”

  The officer appeared satisfied with the reply and handed back his papers, wishing him a good journey. Peace drove the Land Cruiser to the petrol pumps in front of the trading store and asked the attendant to fill the tank and his spare containers.