Per Fine Ounce

by Peter Vollmer

  He tried the name Van Rhyn on those in the trading store but they just looked blankly at him. Anyway, it wasn’t surprising since most couldn’t speak English. Afrikaans and an Ovambo dialect were the only languages spoken here. He deliberately did not ask the police officer about Van Rhyn, as this would have seemed strange coming from an overseas tourist. With the vehicle’s tank and containers filled, he left, following the road east, which was in a much better condition than the track he had previously followed. It would take him to Outjo, in which vicinity he thought the Van Rhyn’s farm might be.

  He stopped that evening in Kamanjab, about thirty miles south of the Etosha Pan Reserve’s southern border. This was bush country and it teemed with wild animals in the form of antelope, lions, cheetahs, and elephants. The town was larger than Sesfontein and boasted a small hotel. It was a thatched building, the interior having no ceiling but rather a maze of crisscrossed creosoted poles supporting the thatch. The smell of creosote still lingered.

  He needed a beer and headed to the bar. To his amazement, he saw that it dispensed a local draught. He ordered a one-litre tall glass, which was served by a huge Black dressed in a white cotton tunic shirt. Condensation from the cold beer was already beading on the glass. Thank God! This is heaven, he thought and glad that for once it wasn’t tepid British beer. Too damn hot here! He drank deeply with relish and wiped away the white moustache of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  He looked at the other occupants who he had observed on entering the bar. Two men were at the bar counter, evidently game wardens from the way they were dressed. At a nearby table sat a family — obviously new arrivals in the sun, given their complexions. They were speaking in German.

  A white man dressed in khaki entered the bar through a door behind it. “Are you looking for accommodation?” he asked.

  Why not, thought Peace. He booked in and paid the equivalent of four-hundred Rand in British pounds.

  A little later he partook in some dinner, which was typically German with smoked warthog steaks, boiled potatoes, and red cabbage. He ate it at the bar, as did the two game wardens with whom he had struck up a conversation. Eventually, one of the men got round to asking the question he knew he would be asked, “Where are you heading?”

  “To the Etosha Pan. I’m going to the Namutoni rest camp.” He knew that to be on the eastern side of the saltpan.

  “Be damn careful! A small herd of elephants has moved south and the cows we saw were in season. That makes them, and the bulls, unpredictable.”

  “I will be — don’t want to tangle with them. Incidentally,” Peace said, “while in Jo’burg, I met a Mr Van Rhyn. He mentioned that he had a farm near the Pan. Have you ever heard of him?”

  The two men looked at each other. It seemed that the question had evoked some private communication between them.

  “Yes, we know of him,” said the second man. “There’s a farm near Gagarus just on the Pan’s southern border, maybe seventy kilometres from here, which is said to belong to the family. But I don’t think you want to go there. They’re not known to be friendly to visitors. The farm is fenced ten-foot high on three sides and only the side to the game reserve is open. You can’t miss it — it’s the only ten-foot fence around here and the farm is the largest by far in these parts. You’re not planning to go there, are you? They make a point of dissuading visitors.”

  “No, no. I’m merely curious — he told me so much about the place.”

  Thankfully, they dropped the subject shortly after and reverted to the game reserve and animals.

  At least he now knew where to find the farm.

  Later that night, he used the satellite phone again, only to learn that MI6 had still had not found it or any coordinates. He suggested they stop the search as he had a good idea of where to go.

  *

  It was around midday the next day when he arrived in Gagarus. The hamlet was comprised solely of a large farmhouse with outbuildings and some huts, which appeared to be occupied by locals. He made enquiries and was told that the Van Rhyn’s farm was a neighbouring property about twenty-five kilometres away. The farm was known as Vrede, which was Dutch for Peace. A local pointed out the single track that led to it and warned him of the elephants. He then babbled something in a strange language, with Peace not understanding a word and so gestured that he did not understand.

  “He’s telling you about the owners — they breed hyenas. He says you need to be careful,” a voice behind him said.

  Peace turned to confront a white man clad in khaki shorts and a shirt, his feet in calf-high boots, his socks folded down over the tops. He wore a felt bush hat with a strip of fur around the base of the crown. He had to be at least sixty, his face lined and tanned. A pair of rheumy blue eyes squinting against the sun appraised him, and there was a pipe clenched between the man’s teeth. The face seemed friendly enough.

  “Hi,” said Peace.

  “Hello.” The man stuck out his hand. They shook and introduced themselves. Peace gave his name as Thornton.

  “I understand you want to travel to the farm Vrede? I wouldn’t recommend that. People out there are not known to be friendly and I know the owner is there. I heard his helicopter fly in a day or so ago. Strange things have happened there. As was said — they breed hyenas, or so rumour has it. The locals are terrified of the place as they say the hyenas are man-eaters, but then again most of us around here know the locals are superstitious.”

  Peace knew otherwise. “Funny that you should say so,” he said. “I met one of the Van Rhyns in Johannesburg; he seemed a decent enough chap.”

  “Don’t you believe it. People have disappeared. The police were brought in but nothing ever came of it.”

  “Well, that’s not where I’m going. How do I get to Otjivasondo?”

  The man gave him directions, and Peace drove off.

  When he was within a few miles past Gagarus, he pulled off the track and drove until he found a thick copse of thorn trees, which he hoped would conceal the vehicle from passers-by. His passage spooked a small herd of kudu that had been standing in the shade of a large tree — they fled, leaping over the bush in long bounds, their corkscrew horns laid back parallel to their backs.

  The terrain was flat; the outer rim of the pan from which the game reserve had derived its name was only a few miles away. The area was densely dotted with thorn trees, most only a little taller than a man, with the odd large camel-thorn tree between. At intervals, he saw the occasional baobab tree, but none very large.

  It was stiflingly hot. He opened all the windows to let what little breeze there was waft through the vehicle. He let down the back of the seat, made himself as comfortable as he could, and slept.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peace opened his eyes. It was late afternoon and the setting sun still emitted enough heat to make it stifling hot. Not a breath of wind was around to cool him down. He was soaked in sweat, which had even pooled in the hollow of his throat. He was annoyed; he had overslept. He should have been ready to move out.

  Trying to ignore the heat, he removed the quad-cycle from the rear of the vehicle; the exertion had him breaking out with perspiration from every pore. He then stripped off his clothing, and from his haversack drew out camouflage fatigues, the material a mottled mixture of yellow, brown and grey. He put this on and pulled a cap of similar material onto his head. He slung the sniper rifle over his shoulder and let the MP5 hang from its strap around his neck. Thereafter he drank thirstily from his water bottle before hanging it from his belt. Using the GPS, he took an exact reading of his position and recorded this in the instrument.

  The quad-cycle started at the first press of the button. It was powered by a four-stroke engine and fitted with an effective muffler, but he knew he would have to abandon it well before the Vrede homestead, as the sound of the engine would carry far in the bush. In the rapidly fading twilight, he rode back to the road and slowly made his way towards Gagarus, but ready to pull off t
he road should he encounter any other vehicles.

  When about a mile from the Gagarus homestead, he veered off the road and slowly rode through the bush to where he thought he’d connect with the track that led from Gagarus to Vrede. It took a quarter hour before he came upon it, and was surprised to see it was in fair condition. He swung onto the road and slowly approached the Van Rhyn farm boundary.

  From a distance, he saw the gate, barely visible in the near darkness. When he approached it, he found it wasn’t actually a gate but an entrance barred by a huge cattle-grid — a rectangular concrete pit running diagonally across the road with steel poles laid longitudinally across it about four or five inches apart, designed to prevent any animal from trying to cross. This had been built between two pillars constructed of rough rock and concrete, which served as anchors for the ten-foot fence. There was no other way through the fence other than over the cattle-grid.

  What the hell, he thought. He let out the clutch, drove towards the cattle gate, and crossed it with a rumble of wheels. A signboard at the entrance indicated a distance of twelve kilometres to the Vrede homestead. He switched on the twin headlights fitted to the front frame, keeping a careful eye on the odometer, meaning to stop and cut the engine well before reaching the house. He kept his speed down, with the engine just a tad above an idle, and the sound muted. The plan was to stop two miles from the house and proceed on foot since the house would be well lit at this early evening hour.

  He saw their eyes reflected in the headlights before he actually saw the animals. It was a pride of lions just starting out on their nocturnal hunt; two females crossing the track, the one trailed by two cubs. A little further on there was another set of eyes. He thought it could be another lioness. He knew the lioness with cubs could be unpredictable and wondered whether they had ever encountered a quad-cycle before. He stopped when he saw the lioness with cubs take a few steps forward and assume a crouch position. Not wanting to provoke her any further, he killed the engine but left the lights on. The lions watched him for a few minutes and then slowly resumed their journey. He waited until he could no longer see them before restarting the quad. Carefully studying his surroundings, he made a note of his current position in case he was forced to make a hasty retreat from the farmstead. Running into the pride while trying to flee Van Rhyn and his men would be doubly dangerous.

  His journey proceeded without any further hitches, although he did have to cross a few cattle-grids — the farm was obviously divided into camps. He wondered how the animals could migrate between the camps.

  The terrain was flat; there was no hillock or ridge from which he could survey the surrounding bush. Again, he stopped and switched off the light and waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

  The sky was clear, and the night filled with stars and the faint light of a three-quarter moon. After five minutes, he resumed his cautious journey. Now that his eyes had adjusted, the going was relatively easy, since the ground was free of rock, and the track hard-baked ground covered with a thin layer of sand. Unexpectedly, he came upon a small herd of kudu. With a few staccato barks, they immediately took flight through the bush, the sound of breaking twigs and branches continuing long after they’d disappeared. In the stillness of the night, the sound was similar to the faint crackle of gunfire.

  The first sign of a light became discernible through the bush; it had to be at least a half-mile away. He would prefer to have been not quite so close, but the scattered bush had hidden the light. He stopped the quad, switched off the engine and dismounted. With the gears in neutral he pushed the quad along the track, wanting to get it as close to the farmhouse as possible should he need to make a hasty retreat.

  Other lights came into view, and as he approached these, he realised they were from fires in front of small cluster bungalows — accommodation for workers, built along the road. There was movement around the fires. The lights further on were those of the homestead, and a row of windows was already lit. Clearly, the Van Rhyn family was at home.

  He pushed the quad off the road and hid it behind a copse of dense bush and scrub. A high fence, reinforced with cable, surrounded the house, bungalows and gardens, no doubt to keep out predators and elephants. Here too, the entrance was rather a cattle-grid instead of an actual gate. He crossed it and walked parallel to the road, keeping the bush between him and the workers’ bungalows. However, he was so close that he could clearly hear those outside their bungalows talking to one another. As he neared the house, he saw an enormous baobab tree. This was exceptionally tall and dwarfed the homestead, and was the perfect spot from which to observe the house. Luckily, a rope ladder hung down the side from above, no doubt to provide easy access to a vantage point to observe the surrounding bushveld.

  Climbing while carrying the sniper’s rifle and MP5 was cumbersome but he knew that he would need the weapons. Eventually, he made it to where the rope ladder had been fixed to the tree. To his surprise he found that a small platform had been built there, complete with a safety railing. He removed the weapons, placed them on the plank floor, and sat down to take a good look at his surroundings. The night was still pleasantly warm, and there was no need for any additional outer clothing, the thin material of the fatigues adequate.

  The night was typical of the bushveld. There was the occasional chirr of an insect and the monotonous squeak of metal upon metal as the light breeze spun a windmill-operated water pump nearby. He could just discern the low throb of an engine — this had to be driving the generator that provided electric power to the house as Van Rhyn wasn’t the type to use paraffin lamps and candles.

  The faint strains of music and the sound of female laughter drifted from the house. The house was about a hundred and fifty yards away. The house’s veranda stretched the entire length of the front of the house. It was ablaze with lights. A three-foot wall surrounded the porch and a fly-screen had been erected from the top of the wall to the roof, requiring anyone who approached the house to enter through a double fly-screen door that led to the actual front door. The front door stood wide open, as did another pair of French doors, further along through which he could see into a dining room. There had to be near a dozen people seated at the table. He peered through the night-glasses and recognised Lady Jocelyn and her stepdaughter Janet sitting next to each other. The others, mostly men, were unknown to him.

  He carefully inspected the surrounding garden to establish how well it was guarded, but there appeared to be no sentries. The Van Rhyns obviously believed they were perfectly safe here. After all, this had been their property for many years and crime in this part of the country was seldom encountered.

  Looking back at the house, he saw the diners push back their chairs and leave the table. Suddenly, the huge bulk of Van Rhyn himself appeared in the doorway that led from the dining room to the porch through a pair of French doors. He paused in the doorway where he stopped and lit a cigar, before taking a seat on a sofa on the porch. He suddenly gave a loud whistle, and from behind the house two huge dogs came rushing round the corner of the building, their gait more a slink than a run. Peace suddenly realised what they were. Bloody hell! Those are hyenas! Van Rhyn rose from the sofa and opened the screen door for the animals. They slunk in and nuzzled his legs. He patted each on the head.

  The man was an enigma, what with tame hyenas, stolen nuclear weapons, wealth beyond the wildest dreams of most, but hell-bent on retaining power over the Blacks at any cost. Peace was certain that, if confronted with a world dominated by Blacks, Van Rhyn would not hesitate to cast the world into a new holocaust by using a nuclear bomb — even if this meant his own demise.

  Fortunately, the peace talks in Namibia had been successful, the Cubans and South African forces withdrawing from conflict and the country taking the first steps towards independence. Clearly, de Klerk who was a man of vision and with him, Mandela, who was known to be a man of peace, could avoid a civil war. However, why the theft of gold and what seemed the relentless purchase of gold mi
ning shares? What did Van Rhyn hope to achieve? Did Van Rhyn really want to control the gold mining industry in South Africa and would this not merely be the beginning of things to come? The South Africa he had grown up in was obviously the South Africa he wanted to retain. The man was a bloody megalomaniac. Van Rhyn and his kind were most certainly not open to negotiation. There was no alternative, and that was why his presence here was justified. Peace had to believe. He had seen the bombs and aircraft at Copperton.

  The sound of loud voices interrupted his reverie. He focused on the veranda and was surprised to see that Margaret Langton-Van Rhyn had also stepped out onto the porch. She was casually dressed and wearing shorts. It appeared the whole family was here. He’d not expected this. That certainly complicated matters — he had no intention of stealthily entering the house and murdering Van Rhyn in the bed that he shared with his wife. That wasn’t his style.

  The two stood facing each other, and while he could not make out what was said, it was apparent that they were arguing — she was gesticulating and her voice was raised, while he stood stoically facing her, his arms folded across his chest, taking the occasional puff from his cigar.

  Then her voice rose higher and he clearly heard her shout, “No! I won’t be part of it! I won’t allow myself to be associated with anything like that, and least of all with you. You’re crazy! You and your people are madmen. My God, what you propose is murder! I’m not listening to this — I’m leaving right now!” She was clearly distraught.

  She swung round and strode back into the house. Van Rhyn did not react, but stood peering out towards the garden, still smoking his cigar, the two hyenas at his feet. Then he appeared to come to a decision. He flicked the cigar through the screen-door where it landed on the lawn in a shower of sparks, then he turned and entered the house with the two animals following him. Finally, silence descended on the homestead, with only the occasional movement as somebody passed a lit window.