by Steve Reeder
Cole came in and shut the farmhouse door behind him. The others were gathered around the battered dining table. In the kitchen, off to right, Cole could see that one of the others found a gas stove and had placed a pot of water on to boil.
“Where did the gas thing come from,” Cole asked.
“These guys,” Smit indicated the surviving American, “left it here from last year.”
“Someone making tea, then?”
“Coffee,” Franz replied, “We forgot to bring anything but he had coffee stashed away,” Franz told him, pointing again at the pilot.
“We should have a bottle of finest Champaign instead,” Cole said with a grin and when the others looked at quizzically he continued, “Did you ever think about how the Angolans were going to be paid for the stones?”
“Now there is a good question,” Reece said. “I guess from the smug grin on your face that you have the answer?”
“I do indeed, Sean, I do indeed.” He held up an A4 manila envelope in his left hand. The pilot’s face was expressionless; he knew what it contained. Cole tipped the contents on to the table. A sheath of official-looking documents slid out. “I found this in the other plane. US treasury bonds - fifteen of them valued at $250 000 each!”
Franz picked up one of the bonds, holding it carefully as if it might break. “What the hell do we do with them? I mean, they belong to someone else, don’t they?”
“There is no name on them, Franz, they’re bearer bonds, and whoever has them owns them. And from what I remember my dad saying about them, you take it into any bank and cash it,” Sean said.
“Oh, right, any old South African bank is going to give you just under R200 000 if you present them with one of these?” Freeman said.
“Yes. Obviously we’d take it into a bigger branch than your local, but it’s the same as a cheque, basically.”
Smit shook his head. “They’d want to know how we came to have them, surely?”
“None of their fucking business, Smitty! If you presented a cheque to your bank, do you think they’d ask if it was yours? A cash cheque I mean.”
“If they knew me they would. I have never had more than fifty rand in my account before.”
“Ask him then,” Cole said, pointing at the American.
The pilot said nothing for a moment but then nodded. “What he says is true…you can cash them at any bank.”
“Any bank in the USA or Europe?”
The pilot nodded again. “South Africa too I guess.”
There was a momentary silence while the six of them thought about this.
“So this means that we don’t need to go and steal those diamonds,” Freeman said, cautiously.
“Like hell it does. We want everything,” Cole said. “There must be a lot more of those stones than we thought, if the Yanks were planning to pay three and a half million for them.” He let that sink in before adding, “We could easily come out of this with a million each even after paying shares to Ricky Steffen and Danny Evans.”
“We should have done as Tommy Freeman said,” he told her, “We’d have had more money than anyone our age, and we could have even managed to explain Ricky Steffen’s death away if we’d gone back to Ruacana by the end of the week.”
“What about the American pilot?” Tanya asked.
“I got the feeling that he’d have been happy to take one of those bonds and flown us back to somewhere near Ruacana.” He nibbled on the sandwich that Tanya had made them. “But we were greedy, you see? There was the prospect of the millions that the diamonds would bring.”
Tanya was quiet, thinking, trying to picture the scene in the old Zambian farmhouse. “So you went the next day?” she finally asked.
“Yes. The Americans had been planning to land at just after dawn on the 30th. The Angolan dude was supposed to be there at the landing site to meet them with the diamonds.”
“But something went wrong?”
He nodded and swallowed the remained of the sandwich “We took off just as the sun was coming up, and it went fine; the take-off and the flight. The American was a good pilot, far better than Steff had been, and we were over the town with a couple of minutes to spare. But there was no-one there to meet us when we arrived . . .”
“Something’s wrong,” Cole muttered as the aircraft approached the town. “They should be there at the landing site, shouldn’t they?” he asked the pilot.
“Yes, that is how it usually works.”
“Is it always the same guys who make this trip?” Franz wanted to know.
“Geoff always, me sometimes,” the pilot replied. “The other two I had never seen before.”
“This seems like something we should have asked before we took off,” Freeman commented heatedly.
“Yeah, well we didn’t, OK?” Reece replied with equal venom. “Go around again,” he told the pilot. “Let’s get a better look at the place.”
The America gained height again and allowed the aircraft to circle around to the west, turning south as they passed over a small army camp some way outside the town. There was a platoon-sized group of soldiers on the parade ground. Several of them looked up at the aircraft and got screamed at by the NCO. The South African soldiers grinned instinctively at each other.
As they flew over the small town Smit pointed out the fuel station and spotted a new Toyota Landcruiser as it sped out towards the designated landing area with two men in the cab and three more on the back of the pick-up.
“I guess they were just late,” Cole said with some relief. “Time to land this thing, buddy,” he told the American.
The aircraft continued on and circled further to the south, overflying the hill where Eric Uys had died not the many weeks back. Cole and Reece exchanged looks as they remembered the day three of their comrades had died. On the edge of town was the fuel station cum general trading store with a new Ford Cortina pick-up parked outside. A fat black man in a Stetson hat was directing several others as they washed and polished it.
The undercarriage rumbled across the uneven landing-strip as the aircraft slowed to a stop near the edge of the low escarpment. The pilot swung the aircraft around and pointed it back up the runway; there was no wind and he was confident that he could take off in any direction. He gunned the engine sending the plane bumping across the ground to meet the Landcruiser which had finally stopped three hundred metres from the edge of the escarpment. John Smit ejected the magazine from his AK, tapped it twice on the floor and rammed it home again. Everyone looked understandably nervous. They were back in the lion’s den, surrounded by the enemy who would not hesitate to shoot if things went wrong. Jenkins cut the engine and quiet returned with only the ticking of the cooling engine to break the silence. Twenty metres away three men climbed out of the Landcruiser and waited. Reece studied the ground around them. The aircraft had stopped near the end of the long landing strip; perhaps a mile long and several hundred feet above the town. On the south side of this small escarpment he could see the beginning of the road that led to the town which was perhaps three kilometres away.
“Smitty, you and Tommy stay in the craft . . . and be ready. If everything goes tits-up then you cover us, OK?” Cole said. Smit and Freeman nodded. “OK then, guys, let’s go get mega-rich.”
Bomber waited by the aircraft while Cole, Reece and Franz walked five paces towards the Angolans, stopping and waiting for the three Africans to come forward, once they had got half way. One, older than the others, was dressed casually in slacks and an expensive-looking golf-shirt. His shoes must have cost a fortune and Cole recognised the St Andrew’s logo on the golf shirt. The others had dark suits and ties on, also expensive but not to the same value as the minister. Their shirts were a light blue material which, to Cole’s mind, would have cost his mother a year’s wages.
The older man stared at each of the South Africans in turn before asking in faultless English, “Where is Geoff?”
“Geoff couldn’t make it this time,” Reece replied. “But we have
the money in US bonds and the deal stays the same.”
The corrupt Angolan government minister considered this before turning to the man by his side. They exchanged rapid-fire Portuguese before he turned back to Reece. “My man here says that you are South African.”
Reece shook his head. “No, I’m Zimbabwean,” he said. “I work in Geoff’s Harare office.”
The body-guard whispered urgently in his boss’s ear.
“And these men?” the minister demanded to know.
“They are just hired help,” Reece told him and grinned, “And you know how hard it is to get good hired help these days!”
The minister continued to stare at Reece, his eyes like flint, until the second bodyguards spoke first to his boss and then rapid-fired instructions to the men on the back of the pick-up. Reece could sense the rise in tension from the men around him and heard a safety catch click from within the aircraft. But the minister finally nodded, apparently satisfied and turned to walk back to the Toyota.
The body guard smiled at Reece. “Come, we will go fetch the diamonds, but just two of you.”
“Charlie, I think that you stay here,” Reece said quietly, “there is always the chance that one of the guys down there will recognise you.”
Reluctantly, Cole agreed.
Franz followed Reece’s lead and hoisted himself onto the back of the Toyota. One of the Angolans grinned at them while the other two ignored them entirely as the driver swung the rugged vehicle around and bounced it back down the track towards the shabby town.
Reece was unsurprised when the Toyota stopped outside the three story building where the RSM had fought his last battle.
The minister led the way into the foyer, followed by the two white men with the two bodyguards close behind. Reece noticed with some inner amusement that the battle-scars had not been repaired yet, and probably never would be. The pools of blood at least had been cleaned up and two African women stood at the huge reception desk looking bored.
The minister led the party up to the first floor and turned right, away from the room where they had held Le Roux. At the end of the dimly-lit passage he opened a door and stepped into an expensively furnished office. The carpets were thick and dark red. The desk that faced the door was solid oak with a leather inlay covering the centre of the top. There was a leather office-chair behind the desk with three chairs in front. The minister lowered himself into the office-chair with obvious satisfaction and waved his hands at the chairs in front of the desk. The South Africans seated themselves with a mummer of thanks.
Reece tipped the envelope of US bonds onto the desk and pushed them across. The minister used his forefinger to spread them. He counted them and, nodding his satisfaction, he snapped his fingers at the bodyguards. One of them crossed to a door to the left of the room, away from the window. Reece turned and looked with interest. The room was not much more than a closet but there were not one but two large briefcases standing on the floor. Both were brought out and laid on the desk. Reece raised his eyes enquiringly at the Angolan. One of the bodyguards was frowning at Reece, his face clouded with concentration.
“This time I have two cases for your Mr Geoff. He did not tell you that?” the minister wanted to know.
“No, he never said anything about an extra case,” Reece replied. “And he only gave me those bonds for you.”
The Angolan gave this considerable thought, chewing on his lower lip. “OK, I will let you take both cases this time but you will tell Geoff to open a bank account in Switzerland for me and put the another payment into the account before the end of the week.” He withdrew a folded slip of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket and slid it across the desk to Reece. “These are the details that he will need.”
“Sure,” said Reece, “I will do that, no problem.”
Reece and Franz both stood up and picked up a briefcase each.
The frowning bodyguard suddenly snarled and began talking urgently to the minister. His companion reacted and suddenly held an automatic pistol in his left hand.
“It all went down very quickly,’” he told her. “ And there was a lot of luck I guess, although we were always pretty good with our fists, Reece in particular was no slouch; he beat the crap out a much bigger guy from the artillery regiment in an inter-regiment boxing match once.” He stopped and smiled at the memory, before continuing, “Anyway, a hasty retreat was called for because of the shot that was fired. The whole town must of heard it and the Angolan soldiers would have been there in minutes, so they grabbed both briefcases and ran like hell…”
The sound of a vehicle grinding over the edge of the plateau grew until it burst into the open and stopped on the edge of the landing strip a hundred and fifty metres from them. Any idea that the South Africans had about their comrades returning with the diamonds was dispelled immediately.
“Oh crap,” Cole muttered quietly.
“What?” Bomber asked.
“It’s not them,” Cole replied, nodding in the direction of the new arrivals.
Bomber squinted, his eyesight not as good as Charlie Cole’s was.
The vehicle was older than the immaculate Toyota that the government minister had ridden off in. This one had obviously had a hard life. The side panels that Cole could see were dented and starting to rust. Dirt streaked the side where fuel had over-spilled and not been cleaned. Dirt had then congealed in the dried fuel. More worrying from Cole’s point of view was the light machine gun that was propped up on the roof, its bi-pods probably scratching the paint work. One soldier stood in the back, holding the stock into his right shoulder with his left hand resting on the breechblock like a man who knew what he was doing.
The vehicle hesitated for half a minute before the driver crunched the gear-box, revved the engine as best he could, and turned right, driving away from the parked aircraft.
“Something has gone wrong,” Bomber said darkly.
Cole said nothing in return, but watched as the battered pick-up stopped a further two hundred metres down the landing strip, and then turned to face the stip. The solider on the back now covered the ground through which the aircraft would have to travel while taking off. He cocked the big weapon and slipped the safety catch off.
The American pilot shouted an angry question that Cole didn’t catch. The plane was parked thirty metres away from where Cole, Freeman and Bomber stood in the elongated shadow of an anthill.
“Smitty,” Cole called out the John Smit who was closest to the aircraft. “Go stay with the Yank and make sure he doesn’t do anything silly.”
But Smit was still some distance from the aircraft when, from the direction of the small town, there came the sound of four shots followed by a prolonged burst of firing from an automatic weapon.
“Fuck,” Cole muttered again, this time more violently.
Worse was to follow seconds later when the aircraft’s engine burst into life.
“Smitty!” Bomber shouted urgently at Smit, who had almost reached the plane. He ran hard, barely catching the already moving aircraft, grabbing the edge of the door before hauling himself into the interior. Cole looked the others; only Freeman had a weapon with him. “Ah fuck,” he muttered again.
“You have a way with words, Charlie,” Bomber muttered.
Sean Reece turned in his seat again and stared back down the track. “I can’t see anyone chasing us yet.”
“They will be,” Franz stated, “As soon as they get themselves organised.” He changed down a gear as the track became steeper and trod hard on the accelerator again. “Are there many rounds in that thing?” he asked with a nod at the pistol that Reece held.
Reece ejected the magazine and tapped it on his knee, gauging the weight and balance. “About half full I’d guess; maybe seven rounds and one up the spout.”
“We should have knocked all three out and tied them up before we ran for it.”
“Frankly I was just glad to get out of there alive. I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen you move so qui
ckly. Remind me to never mess around with your sister.”
“Rachel fancies you.”
“Which one is she?”
“The youngest.”
“Definitely too young for me.”
“Just turned thirteen. I would kill you.”
The track took them around one last bend before they would reach the plateau. Reece checked their rear again but could see nothing to alarm him.
Suddenly they were on top of the plateau, the landing strip running left to right directly in front of them. They skidded to a stop as Franz pumped the fading brakes. It took him a second to comprehend the sight that greeting them. The aircraft was moving and gaining speed. “What the hell . . . They’re leaving without us!”
“No, they’re not. Look! The others are still there,” Reece pointed to where they had left their comrades, “three of them anyway.”
The aircraft was rumbling past them now, moving ever quicker with its tail-wheel already off the ground. Immediately they could see John Smit through the open door; He was shouting and holding an AK47 hard at the pilot’s head, jabbing him forcefully with the business end of the weapon. The American was hunched forward trying to ward off the barrel of the weapon that had already drawn blood from the back of his head.
“Oh shit!” Franz cried, “Look!” He pointed to their right, down the runway.
Reece spotted the old pick-up right away. The soldier on the rear had the light machine gun positioned, aiming at the aircraft as it came alongside his position. Even as Reece watched, the machine gun spat a stream of bullets, wildly missing its target. The second burst punched holes in the rear of the craft, shattering the tail. They could see Smit, turning and firing out the door in forlorn hope at the vehicle as the aircraft left the ground. The next burst of big calibre rounds from the Angolan soldier smashed the windows, killing the American, and hurling Smit back into the cabin of the aircraft. The engine stopped suddenly and the plane dipped, rolling to the left. The inevitable happened with agonising slowness. The left wing caught the ground first. The plane jerked downwards and the nose smashed into the ground, cart-wheeling the aircraft across the dry African bush. The wreckage had almost stopped moving when the fire started. It spread quickly from the split engine, reached the fuel spilling out of the broken wings and within a second the wreckage was ablaze.