Spy Out the Land

by Jeremy Duns

  ‘Where did you get all this from? And where are you going to be?’

  ‘Here. I need to deal with something. I hope it won’t take me long. Once you get to Utö you’ll be met by a couple, Gunnar and Helena Hansson. They know me, and they’ll look after you and Ben for a few days. You’ll be safe there. Now can you go and wake Ben up while I make sure everything’s ready?’

  She looked into his eyes for a long moment. ‘I need to know more about what’s going on, Erik. I need to know how you got all this money.’ There was an accusatory edge to her voice – they could have used it, for food, or clothes for Ben. Then her voice softened. ‘You can tell me. I won’t judge you. I also have secrets. I think—’

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, his face suddenly so fierce that for a moment she was frightened of him. The outline of his skull was visible beneath his skin and the muscles in his jaw were clenching and unclenching manically. She winced from the pressure of his hands, and he took them away.

  ‘I’m sorry. But we just don’t have time.’ He looked into her eyes, and his expression was now pleading. ‘You and Ben need to get out of here now. We can talk about it later, when we’re all safe. But please. You need to leave.’

  She looked at him for a moment, then nodded and walked towards Ben’s bedroom.

  Captain John Weale sat in the kitchen of the flat on the southern side of the square and stared at the clock on the wall. It was ten past six. He was tired and hot and uncomfortable in his own skin, ironically because it was his own skin, which he hadn’t fully inhabited for a very long time – even when back in Inkomo, Scouts changed their field appearance as little as possible to help maintain their cover mentality – but he had now bathed and shaved off the beard he had spent nearly six months growing in the bush and felt almost effeminate as a result. He’d also thoroughly scrubbed away the greasepaint and make-up, although he was still finding bits of it in his ears and in his hairline.

  But his discomfort was also because of this operation. He was trying to keep at bay the nagging thought that it was a mistake, but it kept wriggling back into his mind. The Commander had been his usual confident self about its chances, but this was a far cry from kidnapping a few terrs in the bush, or even across the border in Botswana. They were in the middle of a Western European capital, and because of the Scandinavian latitude the best they could hope for was twilight. The fact he had to operate unseen made it even more frustrating: he didn’t even have a sightline to the targets’ flat in case he was spotted.

  He was also finding it increasingly irritating to be cooped up with Pete Voers, whom he had always found to be small-minded and boorish. He’d banished him into the living room so he could concentrate, but he could occasionally hear him shuffling around the place, and each movement was like nails dragged across a blackboard – he was used to being able to control every movement his men took, but Voers didn’t take orders well.

  Still, Weale thought, he had to admit the man had done a good job of setting them up, especially as he’d done it in just a few weeks. Usually, putting together a safe house like this would have involved a cell of five or six and taken a few months. Voers had been working with just one other man, a Selous Scout who spoke some Swedish as he’d once been married to a girl from Gothenburg, but had nevertheless managed to find a flat just around the corner from the target, and which had three entrances to boot.

  Weale was working with a four-man team, the minimum possible for such a job. The weak point was Joshua Ephibe, the terr they’d captured in the raid near Mozambique and turned, but they needed him as a spotter for the girl and Weale had every confidence Sammy Oka could keep an eye on him. The other two members of the team were Corporals Abel Makuba and Peter Tandi, both highly experienced and trusted officers. Makuba had recently been part of a team that had abducted a ZIPRA official in Botswana, while Tandi was an expert marksman, and had spent some time in Europe as a youth.

  For cover, Pete Voers had established locally that he was the manager of a jazz band on a small Scandinavian tour, and they’d flown into Arlanda eight days earlier with instrument cases in hand on expertly forged passports. Weale was a Brit named Frederick Collins, supposedly a booking agent, while the others were Tanzanians. The jazz band was good cover for a group of black men in an overwhelmingly white city, and it also gave them a good reason for irregular movements in and out of the building.

  Voers had bought clothing locally so they would blend in. Weale’s slacks and shirt were both a little too close-fitting for his own comfort, and it was peculiar seeing the men dressed in European fashions after so long in the bush in camo gear, but even there Voers had picked well – nothing too shabby, but nothing too flashy, either.

  The safe house itself had also been well selected. The block of flats had only two other tenants, one of them a middle-aged businessman who worked in the city centre and the other a self-employed electrician. Neither was home much, and the cell members had quickly established polite but distant relations with them, jokingly promising not to rehearse in the building.

  Voers had paid the rent in cash, and had also bought cars from a second-hand dealer in the area and, from a contact in the north of city, several Makarovs with the numbers filed off, which they had stored in a lock-up garage less than a mile away. They had used the guitar cases to bring them into the flat. So Weale had to hand it to Voers: he’d done a thorough job in a short period of time. But he nevertheless couldn’t wait until Sunday, when the man was due to travel on to Copenhagen and leave them in peace.

  Weale glanced at his watch. It was time to check in. He reached for the Pocketfone and held down the button.

  ‘This is Leopard One to Leopard Two – what’s the current situation, over?’

  He removed his finger and waited. There was a screech of static, and then a tinnier version of Sammy Oka’s voice burst into the room.

  ‘This is Leopard Two. Targets One and Two are still inside the flat with Hippy. Over.’

  Going by Voers’ schedule, the boyfriend should already have left for his shift at the soup kitchen. Why hadn’t he? Weale didn’t want to ask more questions than necessary – Oka knew what he was doing. He hoped he did, anyway.

  He pushed his anxieties aside.

  ‘Report back as soon as you know more. Over and out.’

  Ben was still wiping sleep from his eyes as his parents ushered him into the hallway of the flat. He looked up at his father as Claire helped him put on his shoes.

  ‘Pappa, aren’t you coming with us?’

  Dark crouched down and smiled at his son. ‘No, I have to stay here for a short while, but I’ll come out and join you very soon. Look after Mamma for me, won’t you?’

  Ben nodded solemnly. ‘Will I have to be brave, too?’

  Dark forced a reassuring laugh from his lips. ‘I don’t think so. But if you do, remember what we always say. You might look like a little boy –’ he stretched out a hand and placed it gently on Ben’s chest – ‘but in here . . .’

  ‘I’ve got the heart of a lion. I know, Pappa.’

  Ben had always been small for his age, and it was advice Dark had given him in his first week at kindergarten, repeated often since.

  ‘Good. You’ll like the island, I promise. Some friends of mine live there. Now before you go, do I get a hug?’

  ‘Leopard One, this is Leopard Two. Targets One and Two have left the building, and are heading for their car. Please advise, over.’

  ‘Any sign she might be on to us? Over.’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then: ‘She’s carrying a shoulder bag, but it doesn’t look substantial. Over.’

  Weale closed his eyes and considered the information. It was tricky. It was risky to move now – there were far too many people around. They had decided to move at eleven if she was identified, and barring an emergency that was when they would do it. The bag might mean she had spotted them, or simply that she was on an errand – going shopping for groceries, for example – and sh
e’d taken the child along because the boyfriend had insisted, or perhaps because she wanted to calm him down. Weale remembered his daughter’s temper tantrums at that age, before things had gone sour between him and Mary, and how he would drive her around the farm in the Jeep until she’d fall asleep. So it was probably something like that.

  On the other hand, it might just be something else. He pressed the button and leaned into the microphone.

  ‘Leopard Two, stay in position for the moment. Leopard Three, follow her at a discreet distance and report every five minutes. Over and out.’

  Dark watched from the window as Claire bundled Ben into the Beetle and accelerated down the street. By the trees, the Opel remained in place.

  He drew the curtain and sighed with relief. They were away, thank God.

  He looked around the room, which suddenly seemed desolate without them. A few of Ben’s stuffed toys were lying in the middle of the floor, and he picked them up and put them in his room. Then he walked into the kitchen area and found the bottle of akvavit he had bought from the government shop a few months earlier. It was strong stuff, reminiscent of the Czech haymakers his old boss Templeton had once favoured – perhaps that was what drew him to it, a hair-shirt reminder of his past.

  He cleaned a shot glass in the sink, poured himself a large portion, and knocked it back. It went down smoothly enough, the herbs filling his mouth, but it was like dousing a sauna with water: you had to wait a second or two for the full impact. And there it was, starting with a pleasing heat and then rising rapidly until he grimaced and wondered if he hadn’t overdone it – the back of his throat would now burn for the next ten minutes.

  Well, good. Pain was good. Pain was welcome.

  He poured another dose, then walked back to the living room. He took the rifle out from beneath the sofa, then seated himself in the armchair and set the glass on the side table next to it. Pain was good, but he didn’t want to get drunk. He had to stay alert. But the glass would keep him company: the glass and the rifle.

  He sat there, ruminating on this, his throat torn. Best not to think at all. Focus on the sounds, and on the changes in sound. Focus.

  She looked across at the map on the passenger seat and took the turning Erik had indicated. Once she was on the main road, she glanced in her mirror towards the back of the car. Ben was asleep, his head tilted back, his mouth agape and his left eye ever so slightly open. Keeping one hand on the wheel, she fumbled in her bag with the other. She found the pack of Prince and, in a practised move, slid a cigarette out, lit it from the lighter on the fascia and took a deep draught.

  The trembling in her lips slowly abated, and her head began to clear. She had been so caught up with Erik’s insistence that they leave that she had barely had time to consider what was happening. For a dreadful moment when she had come into the flat she had thought he had discovered her past and was leaving her, but it hadn’t appeared so after all and she had agreed to follow his instructions almost blindly. But now she was away from the flat her initial questions returned, with a few new ones. What the hell had he been so afraid of? He had been desperate to place her and Ben out of harm’s way, it seemed. But why?

  Who was he running from?

  ‘This is Leopard One. Please report on the situation, over.’

  ‘Leopard One, this is Leopard Two. All quiet here. Hippy’s lights are now out. Over.’

  ‘Stand by for new orders. Leopard Three, do you read me, over?’

  There was a crackle of static and Corporal Abel Makuba’s voice came on the line.

  ‘Leopard Three. She’s just taken a turning for somewhere called Värtahamnen. We may soon be out of range. Over.’

  Weale had already spread out the large map of the city on the kitchen table, and after a few seconds he had located Värtahamnen. ‘It’s a harbour. She could be on to us and planning to catch a boat. How busy are the roads? Over.’

  Makuba looked out of the window at the traffic, and the tankers and cranes of the port coming into view ahead. ‘Fairly busy. Over.’

  ‘All right, use your discretion. But if she gets on a ferry, get on it after her. If it’s some other form of boat, find someone in the harbour who you can pay to follow her. But only do that if it looks to be absolutely necessary, otherwise you might have the coastguard on your tail. She can’t be planning on going very far, and eventually she’ll be somewhere there aren’t many people around. Call me when you can. Do you read, over?’

  ‘Loud and clear. Over and out.’

  Weale placed the intercom on the table and took a breath. After a moment, he picked it up again, switched channels and told Sammy Oka to follow the other car to Värtahamnen.

  Dark walked to the window. He had avoided checking the curtain in case the repeated movements were registered, but it had now been some time since Claire had left with Ben. He pushed it aside with one finger.

  The Opel had gone.

  Why had they left? A horrid thought crept into his mind, and lodged there.

  What if it wasn’t him they were after – but Claire?

  He walked back to the armchair and sank into it, the taste of vomit rising in the back of his throat.

  I also have secrets.

  Christ, what had he done? He looked at his watch. It had been two hours and fifty minutes since they had left. He might already be too late. He picked up the empty shot glass and hurled it across the room, letting out a cry of anger and despair as it smashed against the wall.

  Stay calm, he told himself. Think of a plan, then enact it. He had to get to Utö, and there were only two ways there. By boat, as he had told Claire to go – or by air.

  And air was quicker.

  It was his only chance to make up the time, but even then he would have to be fast. He took the M57 and the passports from the holdall and placed them in his jacket, then raced down the staircase and out into the square. Most of the shops had closed, but the fruit and vegetable stalls and fast-food kiosks were still open, and there were plenty of people around: teenagers laughing, children licking ice-cream cones, pensioners seated on benches. Pigeons strutted around the fountains like sergeant-majors at a passing-out parade. By the cinema, a young man was parking his motorcycle and Dark ran towards him, waving his arms. When he was very close, he drew the gun from his jacket. The man’s eyes widened in fear and he dropped the bike and ran.

  As she came into Värtahamnen, the screech of seagulls and the smell of fuel woke Ben up, and he started crying. She switched the radio on and turned the dial, looking for some music to soothe him. She went past a drama of some sort, an exchange of urgent male voices, then with a start realised they were speaking in English and quickly dialled back to it. The voices were sharp and had the tinny quality one heard on frequencies used by taxi drivers and the police.

  ‘Target One is approaching the harbour now. Over.’

  ‘Has she seen you, over?’

  Her entire body froze, gooseflesh forming on her skin, and almost without thinking she jerked her neck back to check the road behind her. The voices on the radio were unmistakably those of Rhodesians.

  And they were talking about her.

  ‘What are those men saying, Mamma?’

  She glanced in the mirror at Ben.

  ‘Nothing, darling. It’s just a story in English. We’ll be there soon.’

  She drove down a ramp and onto the asphalt of the pier, her eyes flitting between looking for motorboats and the cars in her rear-view mirror.

  Dark skidded to a halt in the skirting area outside the main terminal of Bromma airport. Once he had found the signposts, he started the motorbike up again and rode it down a narrow concrete passageway towards the flying school. The reception area was in a large Nissen hut and he braked the bike, climbed off, and ran into the building. A young woman in a smartly pressed white blouse was seated behind a marble desk, strands of bright blond hair emerging from beneath a beret with the flying school logo fixed to it.

  ‘Do you have any helicopters
on the premises?’

  She stared at him, taking in his frantic look. ‘Just the one, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  She pointed out the window towards a hangar, and Dark made out the front of a Bell Jet Ranger. ‘You have to book, Herr . . . ?’

  But he was already running back out of the hut and heading towards the hangar.

  Corporal Abel Makuba tapped Peter Tandi on the shoulder and pointed. A few hundred yards ahead, a red Volkswagen Beetle was parked beside the pier, its rear wheels skewed at an awkward angle.

  Makuba drew his weapon, and Tandi took the car down a gear.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Makuba as they came up by the Beetle.

  It was empty, the key still in the ignition and the back door not fully closed.

  The men jumped out. Makuba was the first to see the motorboat speeding from the shoreline.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and felt for the wad of Swedish notes.

  Ben was finally asleep on a bunk below deck. He’d had a tantrum about getting in the boat, but had finally become so tired he had dropped off again. A bottle of välling from her bag had done the trick – she’d been trying to wean him off the wheat-based milk for months, but now wasn’t the time to worry about that.

  When she walked out on deck, she found the fisherman she had hired looking through a pair of binoculars at the waves behind them. He seemed to be focused on a grey speck in the middle distance. He handed her the binoculars and she peered through. The speck came into focus, and she saw it was a motorboat of a similar size to their own. She handed the binoculars back and asked him what was going on.

  ‘I think they might be following us.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Can we go any faster?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Try anyway, please. Have they gained on us at all?’

  ‘Not as far as I can tell, so it could be nothing. Or it could be that they’re waiting for us to land.’