From the corner of his eye, he could see Cherry’s face and the flash of a warning that crossed over it. Had Janet noticed?
He ignored the question.
“Well?” Janet pressed him.
He had to say something. “Yours,” he said.
Cherry’s facial features stiffened and she appeared to visibly pale. He pressed his leg against hers to reassure her but she jerked her leg away. God, she was impossible, didn’t she comprehend he had no option but to play along? Hadn’t they discussed this? They had agreed that if Janet came onto him, she should keep her emotions in check. If she persisted in behaving like this, somebody was bound to realise that there was more to their relationship than that of employer and secretary.
Van Rhyn rose, indicating that dinner was over. The women got up and left for the drawing-room. Van Rhyn led the men along a short passage to his study, which was dominated by a large ornate desk and a few red, deep-buttoned leather chairs and coffee tables. Once seated, they were served a generous tot of the best South African brandy in bulbous Cognac glasses. Peace declined a cigar but accepted the brandy. All eight men then made themselves comfortable.
“Digby,” Van Rhyn said. Peace noted the man had dispensed with his title, an admission of complicity, perhaps? He resolved to address Van Rhyn accordingly.
“You realise,” Van Rhyn continued, “that you are seated in the midst of probably the most powerful group of Afrikaners in the country. During the last few years, we have forged the ideology on which the modern true Afrikaner movement is now founded. Of course, there are the exceptions, those who have deserted the principles of our founding fathers. However, we are not prepared to abandon them. We would rather die than succumb to a Black government. Do you understand that?”
“Of course I do, Anton.” Peace launched into a tirade against British democracy, castigating the uneducated masses who had taken over the running of the country. Warming to his theme, he even expressed some sympathy with Nazi ideology.
“You’re right,” said Van Rhyn. “Actually, you can do something for us. British fascist groups appear to be gaining some sympathy with the masses; I believe this is a result of uncontrolled immigration, yes? Many believe the immigrants are slowly taking over your country. There are areas of London that rival Karachi in language and culture and others the Caribbean — I could go on and on. Many believe these immigrants, the non-Whites, are slowly taking over your country. We would like you to subtly advance the fascist cause in your right-wing press, and, by association, advance ours as well. You have connections in the right places which would make your intervention most effective.”
Peace leaned back, slowly swirling the brandy in the goblet he held in his hand. He appeared to be giving Van Rhyn’s words serious consideration. Then he said he was prepared to do what Van Rhyn proposed. “But I’ll have to do it with discretion,” he added.
At that moment there was a subtle knock on the door. It then opened. Peace recognised Van Rhyn’s chief security officer, who entered and approached. He bent down to whisper in the seated industrialist’s ear. Instinctively, Peace felt he was the subject of whatever the man was saying and a cold feeling of fear coursed through him. Something, somewhere, had gone awry. He saw Van Rhyn slowly nod and his features pale in obvious anger. The guard did not leave but took up position behind Van Rhyn.
Van Rhyn looked up at Peace; there was a trace of an arrogant, cruel smile on his face. “Digby, I’ve just received the most unfortunate news, which truly grieves me. Lately, I’ve experienced a few rather unfortunate incidents — interference during a salvage operation by the British Navy no less, and shortly thereafter, on our farm in Suidwes, or Namibia as you British now call it.”
His eyes hardened. “We have been investigating you for some time, my friend. I now know that you are not Lord Digby Brentwood. This is distressing news, considering the matters we have discussed. What further concerns me are the many gold mining shares you’ve bought, financed by some outside agency. The amount of money required for this exercise must be considerable. Whoever you may be, I’m certain that your personal wealth would not permit such extravagance. It appears that you may be in the employ of the British government. My sources tell me that you are a naval officer, a Commander in fact,” Van Rhyn said and then turned to his security officer and briefly whispered to him, the man then leaving the room.
Peace’s face was a caricature of incredulity and affront. “Anton, is this some joke? It is preposterous — I am who I say I am.” He hoped his demeanour did not reveal the mental turmoil he now felt.
“I think not. Your fingerprints are not those of the real Lord Digby. In your country he is considered a near-enemy of the state, and his fingerprints are on record.” Van Rhyn sipped from his glass, obviously relishing the situation and wanting to extend it. “Yours don’t match. I have this from the best authority. Not everyone in England accepts the invasion of their country by Blacks and Asians. Our friends were kind enough to tell us exactly who you are.” Peace caught the inference — Van Rhyn and his band had connections in the highest of the British political establishment. “There is no point in continuing to play this stupid game,” Van Rhyn said with a casual wave of his hand as if to dismiss the charade that Peace was still playing.
He knew he was sunk. The bastards would kill him and Cherry; they had no other option. Too much was at stake.
Play the game to the end. Get what you can from them.
He stared at Van Rhyn. He hoped he was still displaying a picture of quiescence, his back against the backrest of the leather chair, the brandy still in his hand, the liquid not revealing a tremor.
The man who he had thought to be Van Rhyn’s main security honcho reappeared and spoke with Van Rhyn in Afrikaans.
Van Rhyn turned to look at Peace.
“Lambrecht and his men will take you away. We shan’t see each other again. A pity; I thought you quite intelligent, and pleasant company. I truly believed I had an ally in you. Well, we all make mistakes, don’t we?”
“Fokken veraaier![15]” General Booyens spat, his eyes black pools of hatred. “Laat hulle uitvind hoe dit voel om sonder ’n valskerm uit ’n vliegtuig te spring[16],” he hissed.
Van Rhyn smiled. “I must apologise for my friend. His hatred for the British and other lovers of Blacks knows no bounds. Jumps from aircraft without parachutes are his speciality when dealing with the enemy.”
Peace had heard this before. It was rumoured the South Africans had learnt well from their fellow Portuguese colonialists in Angola and Mozambique when it came to dealing with terrorist insurgents. They left no evidence and no unmarked graves.
Peace rose from his chair and smiled at the general. “General, it’s a wild horse you’re riding. It’ll soon throw you. History will repeat itself — a minority will eventually succumb to a majority, it is inevitable, but remember, we’re not finished dealing with you and your kind.”
“When you say we, do you mean the British government? My God, what can you do? You are as ineffectual as you’ve always been. Your country is lost without your American friends,” Van Rhyn retorted. “Take him away,” he said to the guard. “Get this done, but not here — there’s to be no evidence. Somewhere in the desert would be preferable.”
None of the others in the room had spoken, but their expressions said everything. Lambrecht beckoned. Peace walked resignedly towards him, the general’s aide-de-camp stepping aside to let him pass. As he passed, he felt a sudden stabbing pain — a hypodermic needle had been driven into his neck. The room began to reel and Lambrecht grabbed him to steady him. His vision blurred and then darkened. He felt himself falling, and Lambrecht was no longer holding him. His last sensation was of excruciating pain as his head struck the parquet floor. Oblivion followed.
Chapter Twenty
Slowly he emerged from unconsciousness, aware of a continuous drone. He didn’t move. He listened, taking in his surroundings, eventually realising that he was aboard a prop-driven
aircraft, strapped in a cabin seat with both hands tied or taped to the armrests. His head throbbed, probably the after-effects of the drug that had been administered, which had to account for the vile taste in his mouth.
He wanted to open his eyes but decided to wait and continued to listen intently. He heard nothing other than the aircraft’s engines and the slight hiss of air. His jacket had been removed, but his braces hung loosely at his sides. He realised he still wore his dress suit and shoes. He could also smell his own rank unwashed odour. He needed a shower.
Suddenly, the aircraft bucked as it passed through a turbulent pocket of air. For a second or two he opened his eyes. He saw enough. He was aboard a multi-engine aircraft, probably capable of carrying eight or ten passengers, its interior opulent. The seat facing him was occupied by Cherry. She too was trussed to the seat, but he saw that she was awake and had seen he’d opened his eyes. A small square fold-down table separated them. He also had discerned Lambrecht across the aisle, apparently asleep. Another man sat in the seat facing him, immersed in a magazine. He realised pretending to sleep would get him nowhere, so he opened his eyes again and kept them open. The man with the magazine looked up lazily and then resumed his reading.
Peace and Cherry looked at each other. She obviously realised the seriousness of their predicament; Booyens had made it clear that they were to be tossed out of the plane without parachutes. Who would have thought that Van Rhyn would go to such lengths to verify their bona fides and dispose of them? This surely indicated that Van Rhyn’s tentacles were everywhere, both here in South Africa and in Britain. How else had he acquired this information? It was too late to worry about that now, Peace thought wearily.
The blinds to their window were closed. He dozed off again, wanting to let the desensitising effect of the drug wear off. He’d need his wits about him if they were to escape this situation.
The rasp of the speaker system jarred him out of his reverie. Something was said in Afrikaans, and Lambrecht rose from his seat and moved towards the cockpit where he spoke for a minute or two with the pilot of the aircraft. He leaned forward to peer out of the windscreen then returned to the cabin and spoke to his companion. They both drew their automatics, chambered a round, and approached their prisoners. Peace realised that their moment had arrived but he was powerless since both of his arms were taped to the seat’s armrests. There was only one thing to do — pretend that he had not yet fully recovered from the drug.
He sat with his head still slumped forward as though he were dozing, and when Lambrecht placed a hand on his shoulder, he groggily lifted his head, slowly opened his eyes, and looked blankly at his captor who was standing over him with his weapon drawn and it pointed at him.
“What’s it?” he mumbled incoherently.
“Sorry, man, time to rock ’n roll,” said Lambrecht, and using his free hand, he started to unwrap the tape that bound Peace’s arms to the armrest. He was careful to keep his automatic trained on him, the barrel never more than a few inches away. Lambrecht’s companion was also busy doing the same with Cherry.
Peace noticed a change in the sound of the aircraft’s engines and registered that the pilot was reducing speed. This would be necessary if they were to open the hatch. The aircraft also needed to descend to a lower altitude to where the pressure in the cabin was equal to the ambient pressure outside. He attempted to struggle, but did so lethargically, hoping this might indicate that he was still drugged.
But Lambrecht slapped him and spat, “Sit still!”
He slumped back into his seat. Lambrecht’s gun never wavered, its hammer back. All he needed to do was pull the trigger.
The tape binding him was then removed. He sat, still with his arms resting on the armrests. “Come on, get up,” Lambrecht said, grabbing him by the shoulder.
He rose unsteadily from his seat, as if still drugged and then collapsed back into the seat.
“Stand up!” Lambrecht shouted, trying to drag Peace up by his armpit. Peace noticed the other guard was bent over Cherry, trying to remove the tape from the armrest furthest away from him, requiring him to lean over her. Peace saw that she was looking at him.
He stood and then again fell back in his seat with Lambrecht struggling to keep him upright. Seizing the moment, he stuck out his hand out and swept the automatic’s barrel away from him. Lambrecht reeled back, pulling the trigger, the shot deafening in the confined cabin. A low whistling sound indicated that the bullet had punctured the fuselage, allowing pressurized air to the escape.
Peace clutched Lambrecht’s wrist in a vice-like grip, trying to stop him from aiming the weapon at him. With his other hand he gripped the man’s clothing and jerked him towards him. Lambrecht tried to resist but Peace had his weight against Lambrecht, pressing his back against the aisle side of the seat. Peace slammed his head forward, his forehead hitting Lambrecht’s nose. He felt the cartilage collapse under the powerful blow. The blow was too weak to totally incapacitate the man but gave Peace the split second’s respite he needed. He twisted Lambrecht’s right hand, and the automatic dropped to the floor. Peace was aware of Cherry grappling with the other guard — he too had blood streaming from his nose. Lambrecht shook his head as he tried to recover. Peace kicked him viciously in the groin and Lambrecht doubled up, emitting a howl. Peace brought his knee up violently into the man’s face, further shattering the cartilage in his man’s nose. Lambrecht offered no resistance for a brief moment as his hands clawed at his nose which spurted blood.
Peace tore off his braces and wrapped the stretchable white straps around Lambrecht’s neck. He forced his knee into the man’s back and pulled the straps back with all his strength. The security man gagged and thrashed, trying to get his fingers under the braces. Slowly, his convulsions began to subside. It took nearly a minute before he was still. Peace released the braces and bent over the inert body, groping on the floor for the fallen automatic. His fingers finally closed around the butt.
Suddenly, a shot was fired, and he felt the air pressure as the bullet missed his cheek by a hair’s breadth. He spun round to see the pilot who was still seated in his chair but twisted around, trying to aim a revolver down the aisle. At the same time, he noticed Cherry was on the floor on her back, a guard straddled over her and pistol-whipping her. Enraged, Peace shot him, almost at point-blank range. The bullet exited the man’s head with an explosion of blood and brains, which splattered over Cherry, the seats and side of the fuselage.
Peace threw himself between the seats just as another shot rang out from the cockpit. Peering around the base of the seats, he saw the pilot again taking aim down the aisle. Peace fired two shots. One punched a hole through the Plexiglas windscreen, the other caught the pilot low in the shoulder, flinging him forward, even while restrained by his safety harness. Peace scrambled to his feet and charged down the aisle. The pilot had unclipped his harness and was rising from his seat, bringing his automatic round again. Peace fired again, twice. Both bullets hit the pilot in the chest, throwing him back against the control yoke and instrument panel.
The aircraft immediately began to slide off a wing, the nose dropping alarmingly and the airspeed increasing as it dove towards the ground. The automatic pilot had been disengaged by the sudden pressure exerted on the trim control switches on the yoke. He jerked the dead man off the yoke, levelled the aircraft, and re-engaged the autopilot. The aircraft began climbing back to the altitude that had last been selected. He dragged the dead pilot into the aisle and rushed to see what had happened to Cherry.
She was sprawled between the seats, the dead guard lying over her, his blood soaking her dress and pooling on the carpet floor. He had no idea what her condition was; there was so much blood he did not know if it was hers or not. Grunting with the effort, he pulled the dead man from her and dragged the body towards the back of the aisle. He lowered the backrest of one of the seats, then carefully picked her up and lay her on it.
He found a packet of wet-wipes in a locker, and with a to
wel taken from the toilet, he cleaned up her as best he could. The butt of the automatic had lacerated her head; the blood was seeping through her hair. He breathed a sigh of immense relief and wiped his face with a hand when he heard her groan. He returned to the cockpit, and copied their coordinates from the onboard GPS and checked these on an aeronautical map retrieved from the pilot’s briefcase. He established their approximate current position and was amazed to see that they were no more than a hundred miles from Copperton.
He now had a serious dilemma. To land a South African registered aircraft with three dead people aboard anywhere in South Africa would result in immediate arrest. Noting their present position from the GPS, and recalling Sir John’s instructions, it seemed Gaborone in Botswana was his best bet. This was four hundred miles away — about two hours flying time. A glance at the fuel gauges indicated the town was well within range. He worked out a track to the Botswana capital, altered course and reset the autopilot.
It would be best to land at the American-controlled airfield just outside the capital. From there he could contact the British Embassy, who could help extricate them from this near disaster or at least get Sir John to intervene. He had no idea what flight plan the dead pilot had filed. He did not attempt to contact anyone on the radio, not knowing to whom the current dialled-in frequency on the radio belonged.
About a hundred miles from Gaborone the high-frequency radio crackled, and Gaborone control came on air, complaining that they had been trying to raise him on VHF with no response. They demanded to know what his intentions were now that he was in their control area. Peace realised the airport staff had been tracking them with their state-of-the-art radar recently installed by the Americans, whose excuse for willingly financing and building this ultra-modern, high-tech airport, was to enable it to serve as an emergency airfield for the NASA Space Shuttle on re-entry. British Intelligence knew there was another, more covert reason. The Americans required a jumping-off-point for a rapid deployment force if there was ever a chance communists, or a communist-supportive socialist force, could threaten to take over in South Africa during these politically delicate times. Were this ever to be, many believed America and a few of her allies would intervene.
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