Per Fine Ounce

by Peter Vollmer

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Peace climbed out of the taxi and paid the cab driver. For a moment he stood on the pavement and looked around at the passers-by — the bankers, stockbrokers and their clerks and secretaries as they hurried past, clearly intent on making it to the shelter of their offices before the heavens broke, showering London with the threatening rain. It all appeared so normal.

  He was dressed in a dark suit but the tailor-made sling in which his left arm rested was in stark contrast, being a light grey.

  As he approached, he saw the Regimental Sergeant-Major looking at him intently, and eyeing his arm in its sling. Peace knew he would notice how much thinner he was and would assume it was the result of a mission and not a skiing accident. Peace initially wanted to make an attempt at being jovial but thought better of it.

  Peace stopped in front of the RSM to greet him.

  “A rough one, Guv?” the RSM enquired sympathetically.

  “You could say that.”

  “I should warn you that there’s heavy brass waiting for you. You’re late, you know.”

  “I know, but frankly, I don’t give a shit. They’re just a bunch of bastards, with a few limp-wristed pansies thrown in, but I’m sure you already know that.”

  The RSM laughed. “You’re right there.”

  He stepped into the fore-office occupied by VA’s secretary.

  “Good God, Commander, you look awful,” Jenny Damsby said, obviously trying to smile to hide her shock. “Geoffrey, are you sure you should be up and about?”

  “Never felt better,” he lied.

  He would normally flirt with her whenever he visited the Vice Admiral’s office, but not today. He was in no mood for light-hearted banter.

  “Geoffrey, I’m truly sorry about your partner Cherry Boxx,” Miss Damsby said.

  “So am I,” he quietly replied, his flint-grey eyes briefly softening.

  The intercom rasped. “We’re waiting, Miss Damsby.” The impatience in Sir John’s voice was unmistakable.

  “Sorry, Sir John, I’ll send him through immediately.” She came round from behind her desk, a rare event, and opened the door that led into VA’s office.

  “Good luck.” She whispered this so softly he could hardly hear her.

  “Come in, come in, Geoffrey,” Vice Admiral Sir John Whitehead said, rising from his chair at the head of the conference table.

  Being addressed by his first name by VA was significant, probably indicating that Sir John felt sorry for him and would treat him as an equal — albeit for a short while. “It’s good to have you back. How’s the wound, or should I rather say the wounds?”

  “Well on the mend,” he replied. The usual gift-boxed bottle of Glenfiddich had arrived at the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital.

  There were three others at the table. He immediately recognised the Deputy Minister of Defence, Ian Tunnecliffe. He had dealings with him before; he was one of those know-it-alls, schooled at Eton and with a degree from Oxford. Peace had been at Oxford at the same time and could recall Tunnecliffe’s penchant for young black women. Chocolate was what it was usually referred to.

  He had to smile as a thought crossed his mind. He wanted to ask them whether he was still so fond of chocolate. That would put the arsehole in his bloody place.

  It would’ve gone down well, and VA’s brief love affair with him would end immediately. He had to try hard not to grin.

  The others rose and all shook hands.

  “Sit, sit down, Geoffrey,” Sir John said. He always repeated himself during moments like this. “Okay, down to business then.”

  Ian Tunnecliffe contemplated Peace for a few seconds. Clearly, he was being appraised.

  “For the past few weeks, my people have been flying around stamping out fires in South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, and Lesotho. Jesus, man, couldn’t you have been a little more circumspect?”

  God, what a pompous arsehole. The bastard hasn’t changed — he is still a sanctimonious prick. Peace stared back at Tunnecliffe, his face expressionless except a slight tic below his left eye.

  “Really, Minister, I wonder what the hell you would’ve done with a WMD perched on a sub-orbital rocket ready to launch to God-knows-where? The bombs were destroyed, and I’ve learned that your clean-up operation in conjunction with President de Klerk’s loyal men was successful. What more could you want?” He desperately wanted to add a few more choice expletives but decided not to. VA would have gone apoplectic — already he was showing the first signs of stress.

  VA intervened, holding up a hand. “Please, gentlemen, all this has already been discussed. Suffice it to say, we’re glad to see you back in one piece and I can confirm that our relationship with those countries mentioned has not been compromised. Of course, the matter concerning the WMDs was smothered; only a few know about it. Fortunately, the mishap at Overberg has been ascribed to a horrific accident. Our American operatives made it safely home, thank God. Unfortunately, many people died at Overberg, but we must accept this was unavoidable. Van Rhyn and Booyens are dead, and without them, the others are leaderless and lost.” He gave Peace a brief, knowing look.

  “I just wanted Geoffrey to know how difficult it is to explain away how so many people died, some with multiple bullet holes, in such obscure places as Ficksburg and the Katse Dam,” Ian Tunnecliffe interjected.

  Peace wanted to say that it was Ian’s job to do so, but thought better of it.

  Sir Norman Douglas of the Bank of England smiled at Peace. “It seems that I’m the only one who has a real appreciation of your deeds. We got virtually all our gold back. In my eyes, that speaks volumes. All my colleagues and I can say is Well done.”

  “Oh, by the way,” VA interrupted, “you’ve been promoted to full Commander — congratulations.”

  Peace remained silent.

  “Well, have you any questions?” VA asked.

  “In fact, I do. Any news regarding Lady Langton-Van Rhyn and her two daughters?”

  “They’re all well. Lady Langton, as she now prefers to be called, is trying to erase all relationships, or rather the memory of her deceased husband. She is here in London and unbelievably, has entirely divorced herself from her previous ultra-right sentiments. Janet Van Rhyn has done likewise, and you will be pleased to learn that she too recovered well from her injuries. And Margaret? She’s back at Oxford, lost in her studies, and is doing her best to forget everything. Some of those men arrested by the South African Intelligence Service were interrogated. They finally squealed, which, with the assistance of de Klerk, gave us the information to round those up whom we thought represented a direct threat to political transition in South Africa.”

  “The bombs?”

  “We, that is de Klerk’s people and us, found them. Other than the nuclear core, everything else was destroyed by the fire. This included the neutron bomb, although it wasn’t quite so bad, I understand. It has been retrieved from the Katse Dam. The firing systems and all the other complex bits of their systems were burned to hell. All were secretly airlifted to Pelindaba, their nuclear research station near Pretoria, where they will be completely decommissioned and destroyed.”

  “Miss Boxx?” Peace asked quietly, his eyes hard.

  “What happened was tragic. I’m sorry, we will miss her; she was a first-class operative.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Peace replied, his voice hard and his jaw clenched.

  “Geoffrey, she was not the sacrificial lamb as you may think. We never believed we would run into the resistance we did. It got out of hand and very rapidly.”

  Peace didn’t want to start slinging mud; he supposed his superiors had done their best.

  There was little else to say. They rose to bid him goodbye, wishing him a speedy recovery.

  “Have a holiday; we’ll be in touch,” were VA’s words before he closed the door on the departing Peace.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was two months later. Peace had spent three weeks recuperatin
g while on holiday after the sling had been removed. He had been in no mood to socialise and sought out a quiet island in the Caribbean — eating well, sleeping late, but avoiding company and particularly, women. Cherry was still too recent a memory. There had been beautiful women around, most on holiday and some clearly out for fun, but he shunned their flirtatious advances on the beach and at the beach bar in the evenings. He drank too much and was lost in himself. This became obvious to others, who soon left him alone.

  It was nine and already dark and slightly overcast when he swung the Saab into the short driveway that led to his garage and activated the automatic garage doors. A red Porsche 928S was parked on the opposite side of the mews. He noticed that the lights were on in his mews flat, although the curtains were drawn. He was surprised; his housekeeper had usually long left by this time. The flat was on the first and second floors. He climbed the staircase adjacent to the main building, which led to his landing and front door. He inserted a latchkey into the lock of the ornate wooden door.

  The door swung open before he turned the lock. This was suspicious; the housekeeper could surely not be here so late, and it was already seven. Somebody had switched on his B&O hi-fi set. This would be most unlike the housekeeper — he must have a visitor.

  “Is that you, Tiger?” a female voice called. This was asked in perfect English, but he still recognised the faintest of a South African twang. He had heard that voice before.

  “I hope you’ve loaded your pistol,” the voice added.

  He didn’t have an automatic with him. Contrary to what was portrayed in movies, intelligence officers didn’t walk around armed when in London and off duty.

  He strode through the foyer into the drawing room. A dark-haired woman sat on his sofa sipping from a martini glass. She leaned forward and placed the glass on the coffee table and with a swish of nylons, uncrossed her magnificent legs and rose to greet him with a brilliant smile. It was Janet Van Rhyn.

  He could not disguise his surprise. “Good God, what are you doing here? You’re the last person I expected to see, and what is it with this Tiger?” What was the reason for the visit? Was this revenge?

  She walked slowly towards him. She was modestly dressed in a blue business suit but this did not disguise her allure, her black hair shimmering in the light, her perfect bosom enhanced by the narrow waist. She chuckled. “Tiger stands for cat, a very special cat with nine lives. You certainly seem to have that. Oh, you haven’t answered my question, is your gun loaded?”

  He was still faintly wary. “Yes, it’s loaded but you haven’t answered my question.”

  She came close, so close he could smell the scent of her perfume, a smell he remembered.

  “I’m here regarding unfinished business, if you recall.” Her voice had lowered and had taken on a sexy huskiness. She then stepped forward, lifted her head to his, and kissed him.

  “God, I missed you so,” she said. “But I waited to give you time to recover from the loss of Cherry. I hope it’s not too soon. I’m truly sorry for what happened. As for my father, I now understand that you did what you had to do. They would have killed thousands, if not millions, of innocent people. In fact, somehow you even saved me from being tried as an accomplice.”

  He hesitated for only a moment, but then took her in his arms and kissed her.

  He then held her at arms’ length and studied her. “How are you?” he asked tenderly.

  With her features now sombre, she replied, her voice lower, “I was lucky… The bullet just missed my lung but I understand it was touch-and-go for a while. I’d lost a lot of blood. Had the helicopter not been there — well, that would’ve meant the end.” She smiled. “I’ve a scar where you like to linger… I’m looking forward to that. Really, I’m right as rain now.”

  “And how did you find my place? It is supposed to be a secret,” he asked.

  She chuckled. “Compliments of a very good investigator I hired. He was expensive. I had your name, Royal Navy rank, and knew you were with MI6. My investigator did the rest. Incidentally, I can recommend him.” She laughed and wagged a finger at him. “Never underestimate South Africans — we’ve also waged intelligence wars for years — sometimes, the easiest route is the best way,” she remarked nonchalantly, affectionately holding a hand to his cheek.

  He looked into her soft eyes, remaining silent for a moment before saying, “I should report this but I won’t, simply because I’m not that difficult to find and I’m glad you did.” He smiled and kissed her.

  THE END

  * * *

  [1] The black peril — an Afrikaans reference to the overwhelming number of Blacks in the country who are by far in the majority

  [2] Ladies and Gentlemen

  [3] An Afrikaner expression that refers to those who are considered politically ultra-right-wing — no mixed marriages, no shared politics and segregated housing, schools and public transport.

  [4] A sharp hill usually with boulders, grass, and shrubs.

  [5] What can I do for you, sir?

  [6] What the fuck is going on here?

  [7] Open the door!

  [8] Do it now or I’ll shoot!

  [9] Chief Supervisor

  [10] What’s wrong now?

  [11] What’s the problem here?

  [12] Those who live and visit this coastline, being predominantly Afrikaners and Germans, refer to the wind as die ‘magtige westewind’. On bad days it can lift small pebbles.

  [13] Don’t shoot!

  [14] Good day, sir.

  [15] Fucking traitor!

  [16] Let them find out what it feels like to jump from a plane without a parachute

  [17] South African Air Force

  [18] Who are you?

  [19] Again, I ask, who are you?

  [20] Drive, drive!

  [21] Shoot him now if you want to. Just make sure the bastard dies!

  [22] Don’t you believe it!

  [23] Fucking English!

  [24] Good God! What happened here?

  [25] You piece of British shit! Die now!

  [26] What on earth is happening here?

  [27] Afrikaans equivalent of “Good grief”

  [28] Bastard

  [29] The word “Really?” when raised questioningly or “and even” in this context.

  [30] My dear God!