by Tony Park
Hans Kurtz kissed his wife and son goodbye, and wished he’d been able to do the same to his only daughter when she’d left on the same helicopter he was about to board.
There had been a reconciliation of sorts, but probably not enough to absolve him of all his past sins. It was as good as it could be, he told himself, though he would have liked to have hugged her one more time. He remembered her as a baby; the clean, soapy smell of her before she started to grow up and the war changed everything. He remembered Sonja’s mother’s face when he was allowed in to see her in hospital, cradling Sonja in her arms. ‘Look what we made, Hans,’ she had said.
Look what I made, he thought, as he gave the thumbs-up to the helicopter pilot and ordered his men to board.
‘I love you,’ Miriam yelled over the whine of the jet turbine.
He nodded, shouldered his pack and turned. He took two steps and looked back at her. ‘I love you, too. Both of you.’
Miriam held his son in one hand but she moved the other to her face so he wouldn’t see the tears. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t see them again. He jogged to the open door of the Bell 412, threw his pack in and sat on the floor, with his feet on the skid. The pilot looked over his shoulder to check if they were all on board, and Hans gave the man another thumbs-up. The helicopter lifted off.
Martin Steele was with the general and they both craned their heads to watch the helicopter’s departure. See you both in the next life, Kurtz thought. It would be even hotter there than the bloody Caprivi Strip.
‘Caprivi!’ he shouted and raised and clenched the fist that wasn’t gripping his AK-47.
‘CAPRIVI!’ his young lions roared back at him, and he could hear them loud and clear and ominous as a big cat’s call in the night.
Hans Kurtz was not a man given to deep philosophical thinking – he left that to his wife. He was a farmer who became a soldier who became a drunk, who became a Christian, who became a soldier again. In his dreams and his promises to Miriam he went full circle and ended his life as a farmer once more, teaching his little son how to work the land.
As a father and a Christian he knew in his heart of hearts that if he truly wanted to atone for the way he had treated his first wife and child then he should do everything he could to gain their forgiveness, and then spend the rest of his life loving and caring for his new family. In the meantime, he would be going to war again.
The Ovambo had won their war and created their new country in their own image: Namibia. The whites who had stayed had not fared badly. Namibia was peaceful and, by African standards, prosperous, and while whites could no longer count on guaranteed access to easy government jobs with life tenure, they were generally treated equally and with respect. How, Hans wondered, could the new government treat its old enemies so right and its former allies, the Caprivians, so wrong?
He shuffled backwards on his bottom into the cargo area of the helicopter and a couple of his warriors dragged packs and machine-guns and an RPG 7 out of his way so he could get up on one knee. He pointed at the headset hanging on a hook between the pilot and copilot and one of his NCOs handed it to him.
He pushed the transmit switch on the small box on the cord and said, ‘Howzit?’
The South African copilot looked over his shoulder. ‘Ja, all fine, bru. We’re in Namibian airspace. Going low, under the radar. Should be over M’pacha in,’ he checked his watch and the glowing instruments in front of him, ‘twenty minutes.’
‘Sorry, man, but there’s a change of plan. Turn west and I’ll give you a new coordinate to head to.’
‘What?’ The pilot shot a glance back at Kurtz, but quickly returned his eyes to the ground rushing close beneath the aircraft’s nose. ‘No one briefed us about any change of plans.’
‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing. Turn to—’
‘I’m calling headquarters for confirmation,’ the copilot said.
Hans thumbed back the hammer on the nine-millimetre pistol he had already quietly drawn from the holster slung low on his right leg and pressed it into the copilot’s temple. ‘Not a good idea, bru. Now, get out of your seat.’
The policeman yawned and prodded the fire in the cut-down oil drum with a stick. The music from the veterinary control officer’s radio coming from inside the checkpoint building was tinny and blurred with static. Either her batteries were nearly flat or she hadn’t tuned the station in properly.
‘Can’t you do something about that tuning, sister?’ he called to her.
‘What?’
He shook his head. She was a fine-looking woman, but so far she had resisted all of his charm and his best lines. She had a nice round arse and big tits that were still sitting nice and high on her chest. He would try asking her again if she would come to the bar with him on Friday night. She’d said no once, but she might just be playing hard to get.
He took a sip of warm Coke. Later, after his senior officer had done his customary ‘random’ check on him at ten o’clock, just before going to bed, he would break out the beer. The empties would be gone before the sun rose. Perhaps the veterinary control lady would join him in a drink or two tonight. It was warm still, and hopefully it would get hot with her later on. He rubbed his face to stave off the tiredness that was already starting to grip him, even at this early hour. Too much beer last night, he thought, and not enough sleep in the heat of the day. Who could sleep in such weather?
The noise banished the fatigue. It was a siren. He stood and moved the red-and-white-striped boom. The wail was getting louder and he could see the lights flashing on top of the oncoming vehicle.
‘What is it?’ the veterinary control lady said, poking her head out of the building. She had turned down her radio.
He walked to her and leaned inside, retrieving his AK-47 from where he had left it leaning against the inside wall. It was too heavy to keep hanging over his shoulder – especially at night and in between ‘random’ inspections. ‘Police. He is in a hurry.’
‘Are all you policemen in a rush to get somewhere?’
He ignored her joke, but filed away her flirtatiousness for future reference. He stepped into the middle of the road, pulled out his torch, and turned it on. He waved the light slowly up and down so the man behind the wheel would see him. The vehicle slowed as it came up on him. He could see clearly now, as it approached, that the bakkie had police markings as well as the lights.
The bakkie stopped and the driver turned off the siren, but kept the lights flashing.
‘Evening comrade,’ the driver called.
‘Evening. Where are we rushing to?’
‘Here, comrade! There has been a road accident, not far from here. I was just passing. I have two men in the back, one seriously injured. One has just had a cardiac arrest and I revived him. I was trying to make it to Katima, but I don’t think the man will make it. I radioed and MARS are sending a helicopter.’
‘Serious?’ It couldn’t be good if the Medical Air Rescue Service had been called.
‘He is a tourist. From Germany. I have told the helicopter to land here.’
‘All right. I will wake my supervisor, if your siren hasn’t done so already.’
‘Wait, comrade. Please. I think I hear him calling from the back. Come help me.’
The policeman looked over his shoulder. The woman was standing there in the doorway, her shapely figure silhouetted by the dim light from the hut. His supervisor could wait if there was a tourist in trouble. ‘All right.’
The uniformed man moved to the back of the bakkie and opened the door. The officer from the checkpoint peered into the darkened area usually used to hold arrested suspects. As usual he caught the twin odours of urine and disinfectant. However, there was no injured German tourist inside – just two men dressed as policemen, but pointing AK-47s at him from the gloom. He felt the hard tip of a pistol in his ribs.
‘Quiet, comrade. Just take it easy and you will live to see a new dawn in a new land.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
&nbs
p; ‘How are you going to blow up the dam?’ Sydney Chipchase glanced into the rear-view mirror of his Land Cruiser as the security guard at the entrance to the Okavango Dam construction site lowered the striped boom gate behind them.
Although security at the site was tight, Sonja had correctly assumed that Chipchase, as a regular visitor to the dam construction site, would not be made to traipse into the office to log in and be issued a pass, as she and the TV crew had. Instead, the guard had brought a clipboard to the boom gate for Sydney to register his name and time of entry.
‘Keep quiet, Sydney, and keep driving. Slowly,’ Sonja said, keeping the barrel of the pistol pressed into the back of his neck, from her hiding place in the back of Chipchase’s Land Cruiser.
From her father, Sonja had learned that Chipchase timed his regular trips to the dam construction site to coincide with the visits of the mobile HIV-AIDS testing van. Chipchase travelled the same route as the German nurse and her driver, though he usually preceded them. The idea was, Hans had told her, that the missionary was available to tend to the construction workers’ spiritual needs while the clinic cared for their corporeal issues. ‘Gives him a good cover for his goddamned spying,’ her father had added.
Sonja’s first change to the plan was to hijack Chipchase’s vehicle rather than the mobile clinic.
‘You can put that away,’ Chipchase said, looking back at the pistol.
‘I don’t think so, Sydney.’
‘Sure and I can’t let you blow up the dam, Sonja.’
His Ulster accent reminded her too much of her past. It grated. She was in charge of this operation now. ‘Pull over up there, behind the manager’s office, in the dark.’
He did as she told him, then turned off the engine. She checked her watch and opened her door, keeping the Glock pointed at the Irishman. ‘I need a tyre lever, or a long-bladed screwdriver.’
He nodded and got out and walked to the rear of the four-by-four. He opened the door and reached in.
‘I’m watching you.’
‘Don’t worry. I know your record.’
He slid out a black plastic toolbox and opened it. Sonja moved a pace closer to him and looked over his shoulder. It was a perfect place to conceal a weapon, but all she could see were tools. He drew out a screwdriver, slowly, and handed it to her. ‘Come with me,’ she said.
She motioned for him to move ahead of her and when they got to the door of the demountable building that housed Deiter Roberts’s office she gave the tool back to him. ‘Open it.’
Chipchase looked at her for a second, then at the barrel of the pistol. He slid the flat tip of the screwdriver into the gap between the door and the jamb and pushed against it. The door splintered with a loud crack and swung open. Sonja checked over her shoulder to make sure no prowling security guard had been startled by the noise. ‘Get inside.’
It was hot inside the prefabricated building without the airconditioning on and she began to perspire immediately. ‘Down the corridor, on the right.’ Deiter’s office was even stuffier. ‘Sit down,’ she said when they entered the office, ‘behind the desk.’
Chipchase walked around Roberts’s desk, pushed back the office chair on its castors and took a seat. The laptop computer that had been used in the GrowPower presentation was sitting on the desk, next to Roberts’s PC. Sonja had noticed it as soon as they’d entered the office and was pleased she didn’t have to search for it.
‘What now?’ Chipchase asked.
‘Turn on the laptop.’ Chipchase opened it and pushed the power button. The screen came to life and bathed his face in an eerie glow. She sat down opposite Chipchase and pointed her Glock at the mouse.
‘What am I looking for?’ He peered at the screen and clicked a couple of times.
‘Look on the desktop for a couple of PowerPoint presentations.’
He leaned closer and blinked a couple of times. ‘OK. There’s something called “presentation”, then “presentation vers 2”.’
Good, she thought. She remembered how Deiter Roberts had spoken about GrowPower’s fixation with amending documents and presentations, making sure everything was just right. She recalled, too, that the version of the presentation Selma had shown the TV crew was called ‘vers 2’. Roberts had spoken about loading an updated presentation on the laptop just before they had all arrived at the dam site.
‘Open the first version – the one called “presentation” – and play it.’
He jiggled the mouse a bit, freeing dust from the ball, then clicked. Sonja leaned in slightly and saw Klaus Schwarz’s face appear on the screen.
The video started and Schwarz’s voice sounded loud in the quiet, dark room. ‘Thank you, Selma,’ he said, then turned stiffly to look at where his PR lady would have been standing during the presentation. ‘Ms Daffen, Mr Chapman, gentlemen, I’m sure Selma has passed on my sincere apologies at not being able to meet you in person during your trip to this beautiful country …’
‘Stop it there.’
Chipchase clicked and ended the video.
‘Play the other one – version two.’
Chipchase exhaled and wiped his damp brow, then selected the second video and clicked on play.
‘Thank you, Selma,’ Schwarz said again, in the same emotionless voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure Selma has passed on my sincere apologies at not being able to meet you in person …’
Chipchase clicked stop and looked across at her.
‘You saw the difference?’
He nodded. ‘What do we do now?’
‘It’s been a set-up all along. What we do now is stop him doing what he’s trying to do.’
Chipchase shook his head. ‘I can’t let you go through with this, Sonja. It’s not enough to take to a court, either. You can’t prove what they’re up to on the basis of a throwaway line in a presentation.’
She raised the pistol. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Sydney, but I will if you try to stop me.’
He stared back at her. ‘I need more proof.’
She checked her watch again. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’ Sonja moved quickly, but silently, through the remnant bush that screened the administrative compound from the perimeter fence and gate of the construction site. She held up a hand as the lights of the checkpoint came into view.
‘What now?’ Sydney whispered as he lowered himself into the dry grass next to her.
‘We wait.’ She looked at the luminous face of her watch again. ‘Any time now.’
It seemed like an age, but it was just eleven minutes before they heard the whine of an approaching engine. They were about two hundred metres from the checkpoint, but the night was clear and with the lights around the gate there was no need for binoculars. They could easily make out the faces of the African driver and the white female passenger when the mobile AIDS testing clinic pulled up.
‘Look at the guard on the gate,’ Sonja said quietly. ‘He’s got an AK-47 at the ready. You’ve been here plenty of times. Have you ever seen him armed with anything more than a pistol?’
‘No, but the Namibian government and GrowPower know an attack of some sort is imminent. It’s not surprising security has been beefed up. The NDF detachment is on high alert as well.’
The driver and the passenger opened their doors and got out. The guard raised his rifle, glanced quickly over his shoulder then back at the pair. ‘Get down! On the ground!’
The man and woman looked at each other through the open doors of the truck. The woman said something in German, but her voice was drowned out by more yells. Two men emerged from the shadows behind the security checkpoint office, while two others stood up from the long grass at the side of the access road.
‘Down! Down!’ the men yelled at the pair.
‘What is going on here?’ the woman tried in English as she lowered herself to her knees.
One of the men who had emerged from the grass ran up behind the nurse and pushed her in the back. She reached out with her hands and yelped as
she grazed them on the tar of the road. The man put his foot on the small of her back as a second kneeled beside her, laid his AK-47 out of reach and began to frisk her.
‘Get your hands off me!’
‘Leave her!’ the African driver yelled, but he was silenced by the crack of a rifle butt to the side of his head. He, too, was searched roughly once he was face down on the ground.
‘Clear,’ the guards yelled across to each other.
‘Get them on their feet,’ said one of the guards who had stepped back.
The woman screamed as she was pulled to her feet by her long hair. Sonja winced at the spectacle and wished there was something she could do. However, she was sure the couple would be fine once the guards searched the back of the ambulance and found nothing.
‘What is the meaning of this? I demand to see Herr Roberts and—’
The woman’s protests were silenced by a backhanded slap in the face by the guard who seemed to be in charge. He pointed his rifle at her chest. Another man kept his weapon trained on the driver, who was now on his feet, holding a hand to the side of his head.
‘Move!’ the man in charge said in a loud clear voice. He pushed the German nurse in front of him with the barrel of his rifle and they moved towards where Sonja and Chipchase were lying.
Sonja gripped her pistol tighter, but the head man and another guarding the ambulance driver stopped about twenty metres from them and looked back at the empty ambulance. The other two gunmen stopped as well. They lowered themselves to one knee and raised their rifles to their shoulders.
‘The vehicle,’ their leader said. ‘Fire!’
‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ Chipchase whispered.
Bullets thudded into the radiator and pinged off the engine block, ricocheting into the night. The ambulance’s windscreen disintegrated in a shower of shattered glass. One of the gunmen paused to reload then moved slightly to one side. He took aim at the petrol filler cap on the side of the truck and pulled the trigger. The fuel ignited with a whoomf. The leader of the security gang kicked the woman in the back of her right knee, causing her to crumple to the ground. ‘Get down,’ he ordered her. The driver was also down, his captor forcing his face into the dirt.