The Sunbird

by Wilbur Smith

  There was certainly nothing to lose. Timothy was obviously sincere, he was still tense and nervously aware.

  ‘I have already invited you to join me, Timothy, and I was very disappointed when you refused. Of course you may come with me - we can certainly see if the sight of the ruins stirs something in your memory.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. What time will you leave?’

  I glanced at my watch.

  ‘Good Lord, it’s four o’clock already. We will leave at six.’

  ‘Then I must hurry home and pack.’ Timothy replaced his glass on my cabinet, then he turned to me. ‘There is a small snag, Doctor. My travel papers have expired and we will have to cross an international border into Botswana.’

  ‘Oh, damn it,’ I muttered, deeply disappointed. ‘You will have to get them renewed and come up with me on the next trip.’

  ‘As you wish, Doctor,’ he agreed readily. ‘Of course, it will take two or three weeks - and by then the whole thing might have faded from my memory.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded, but I felt a prick of temptation. I am usually a law-abiding person, but now as I thought about it I saw that no harm could come from what I intended. The chance that Timothy might lead me to the burial grounds of the ancients was worth any risk.

  ‘Would you like to take a chance, Timothy?’ I asked. Formalities concerned with the coming and going of Sturvesant aircraft had been reduced to a minimum. There were daily arrivals and departures, and a phone call to the airport authorities was all that was necessary before departure. The Sturvesant name carried such weight, that there was never a head count on arrival or departure. At the City of the Moon Louren had arranged special status with the Botswana Government, and we were virtually free from bothersome red tape.

  I could have Timothy in and out within three days with nobody the wiser and no damage done. Roger van Deventer would accept my word that Louren had sanctioned the flight. I could see no problems.

  ‘Very well, Doctor, if you think it’s safe.’ Timothy agreed to my proposal.

  ‘Be at the Sturvesant hangar before six.’ I sat down to scribble a note. ‘If you are questioned at the airport gate, which I doubt, show them this. It’s a note authorizing you to deliver goods to the Sturvesant hangar. Park your car behind the flight office, and wait for me in the office.’

  Quickly we made our arrangements, and when I stood at the window of my bedroom and watched Timothy’s old blue Chevy pull out of the Institute car park I felt a mixture of elation and apprehension. Idly I wondered what the penalty was for aiding illegal exit and entry, then dismissed the thought and went to make myself some coffee.

  Timothy’s Chevy was in one of the parking bays when Roger van Deventer and I drove up in the Mercedes. We went through into the hangar. The big sliding doors were open and the ground crew was readying the Dakota for the flight, and through the glass doors of the flight office I saw Timothy sitting hunched at the desk. He looked up and smiled at me.

  ‘I’ll get the clearance, Roger,’ I suggested smoothly. ‘You go and start the engines.’

  ‘Okay, Doctor.’ He handed me the flight dossier. We had done this before, and I had banked on the same procedure. Roger climbed up through the door of the fuselage, while I went quickly into the office.

  ‘Hello, Timothy.’ I looked at him and felt a twinge of concern. He was huddled into his blue windcheater, and there were lines of pain cut into his forehead and the corners of his nostrils. His skin was grey and his lips pale purplish blue. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘My arm is a little painful, Doctor.’ He opened the front of his jacket. The arm was in a sling, freshly bandaged. ‘But it will be all right. I’ve had it attended to.’

  ‘Do you feel up to this trip?’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Doctor.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘All right, then.’ I sat down at the desk and picked up the phone. It was answered at the first ring.

  ‘Airport police!’

  ‘This is Dr Kazin - from Sturvesant, Africa.’

  ‘Oh, good morning, Doctor. How are you this morning?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. I want to clear a flight to Botswana on ZA-CEE.’

  ‘Hold on, Doctor. Let me get the particulars. Who are the passengers?’

  ‘One passenger, myself - and the pilot is Roger van Deventer as usual.’

  I dictated while the constable on the other end took it down in laborious shorthand. Until finally he said: ‘That’s okay, Doctor. Have a good flight. I’ll give your clearance to control.’

  I hung up and smiled at Timothy.

  ‘All clear.’ I stood up. ‘Let’s go.’ And I led the way out of the office. The engines of the Dakota were ticking over. The three black ground crew inexplicably left their positions beside the landing gear and began walking rapidly towards me.

  ‘Doctor!’ Timothy’s voice behind me, and I turned back towards him. It took me four or five seconds to realize that he had a short-barrelled Chinese model machine-pistol in his uninjured hand and the muzzle was pointing into my belly, I gaped at him.

  ‘I am sorry, Doctor,’ he said softly, ‘but it is necessary.’

  The ground crew closed in on each side of me, they gripped my arms.

  ‘Please believe me, Doctor, when I tell you that I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not cooperate,’ He raised his voice without taking his eyes off me. ‘Come.’ he called in Venda.

  Five others came through the outer door of the hangar. I immediately recognized two of the young Bantu assistants from the Institute, and one of the girls. All of them carried those stubby, lethal-looking machine-pistols and between them they supported a badly wounded stranger. His feet, dangled loosely, and blood-soaked bandages covered his chest and neck.

  ‘Get him into the plane,’ Timothy ordered crisply.

  All this time I had stood dumbly, paralysed with shock, but now the party carrying the wounded man squeezed past between my captors and the side wall. They were blanketing each others’ line of fire, the whole group was off balance and at that moment I regained my wits. I braced my legs, leaned forward slightly and heaved. The men on my arms shot forward like thrown darts, crashing headlong into Timothy and knocking him down in a floundering heap.

  ‘Roger!’ I shouted, ‘Radio! Get help!’ Hoping my voice would carry over the sound of the aircraft engines. The third ground crew leaped on my back, one arm locking around my throat. I reached up, took him at wrist and elbow and wrenched against the joint. His elbow went with a rubbery popping sound and he screamed like a girl, his arm loose and flabby in my grip.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ shouted Timothy. ‘No noise.’

  ‘Help!’ I screamed, the engines drowning my cry. They dropped the wounded man and came at me. I ducked and went in low. I kicked for the groin of the leader, and felt my boot sock into him, fleshy and soft. He doubled over and I swung my other knee up into his face. It crunched as the gristle of his nose collapsed.

  Timothy and the ground crew were scrambling to their feet.

  ‘No shooting.’ Timothy’s voice was desperate. ‘No noise.’ I went for him. Leopard-mad with rage, hating him for this betrayal, with the full strength of my being, wanting to see his blood splash and feel his bones break in my hands.

  One of the girls hit me with the steel butt of the machine-pistol, as I brushed past her. I felt the sharp edge of it cut into the flesh of my scalp, it threw me off balance. One of the ground crew grappled with me, and I took him to my chest and hugged him. He screamed, and I felt his ribs buckling in my grip.

  They hit me again, steel biting into the bone of my skull. Blood poured warmly down my face, blinding me. My arms went soft, I dropped the man I was crushing and turned to charge into the others. Blinded with my own blood, my maniacal roars deafening me, they hit me again, crowding around me as I flailed and groped for them. The blows rained on my head and my shoulders. My knees collapsed, and I went down. I was still cons
cious, hot waves of anger buoying me. The boots started then, crashing into my chest and belly. I doubled up, blind, rolled into a ball on the cold oily concrete, trying to ride that storm of booted feet.

  ‘Enough, leave him.’ Timothy’s voice, ‘Get him to the aircraft.’

  ‘My arm. I’ll kill him.’ The voice pig-squealing with agony.

  ‘Stop that,’ Timothy again, and the sound of a palm slapping against a face. ‘We need hostages. Get him into the plane.’

  They dragged me across the floor, many hands. I was lifted and thrown heavily onto the metal floor of the fuselage. The door slammed closed, muting the engine noise.

  ‘Tell the pilot to take off,’ Timothy ordered, ‘Get the Doctor into the radio compartment.’

  I was hustled down the length of the aisle. Blinking the blood out of my eyes, I saw the white ground engineer and his black ground crew lying bound and gagged against the wall of the fuselage. They were stripped of their overalls, which the gang had used to impersonate them.

  Rough hands forced me into the steel chair in the radio compartment, and they tied me so tightly that the ropes bit painfully into my flesh. My face felt swollen and numb, and the taste of my own blood was thick and metallic in my mouth.

  I turned my head, looking into the cockpit. Roger van Deventer was at the controls. There was a livid red swelling under his eye, and his grey hair was rumpled, his face pale and terrified. One of them stood over him with the muzzle of a machine-pistol pressed firmly against the back of his head.

  ‘Take off,’ instructed Timothy, ‘Observe all routine procedures. Do you understand?’

  Roger nodded jerkily. I felt sorry for him, I had guessed he was not cast in the heroic mould.

  ‘Sorry, Doctor,’ he tried to explain. ‘They jumped me the moment I stepped aboard.’ His full attention was on the job of taxiing the big aircraft out onto the still dark airfield. He did not look at me. ‘I didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘That’s all right, Roger. I didn’t do so good either,’ I replied thickly. ‘I only got in two good licks.’

  ‘That is enough talking for now, please, Doctor. Mr van Deventer must attend to the business of take-off,’ Timothy admonished me, and I turned to give him the most expressive glare of hatred that I could force from my numbed features.

  Roger asked for and received control clearance, and the take-off was routine and uneventful. The tense, anxious black faces relaxed and there were a few nervous laughs.

  ‘You will fly on course for Botswana,’ Timothy instructed Roger. ‘Once you are over the border I will give you a new course.’

  Roger nodded stiffly, the machine-pistol still held at his head. I was assessing the strength of the gang, I had already formed a working idea of their motives. Apart from Timothy and the eight who had overwhelmed me, there were five others. These were the ones who had captured and guarded Roger and the ground crew. The wounded man and the two I had damaged were laid out on the floor of the cargo hold. The two girls were working over them, both girls from the Institute, they were fitting a splint and changing bloody bandages.

  As I watched, the gang members began changing from civilian clothing into camouflage paratrooper battledress. I saw the red star shoulder flashes, and my last doubts were dispelled. I turned my head and found Timothy was watching me.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’ He nodded. ‘Soldiers of freedom.’

  ‘Or the bringers of darkness, depending how you look at it.’

  Timothy frowned at my retort. ‘I had always believed you to be a man of humanity, Doctor. You, I would have expected, could understand and sympathize with our aspirations.’

  ‘I find it hard to sympathize with gangsters carrying guns in their hands.’

  We stared at each other for a few moments. Then abruptly he stood up and came to the radio equipment beside my chair. He switched on the set, glanced at his watch, and began sweeping the bands. The station came on loudly, and immediately all movement in the aircraft arrested, all attention fixed on the announcer’s voice:

  ‘This is the South African Broadcasting Corporation. The time is seven o’clock and here is the news. A spokesman for the South African Police states that at 2.15 AM this morning a detachment of the Security Police, acting on information received, raided a farm house on the outskirts of Randberg, a suburb of Johannesburg. A pitched battle between police and a large gang of unidentified persons armed with automatic weapons ensued. Elements of the gang escaped in four motor-cars, and after a chase by the police, two vehicles managed to evade pursuit. Initial reports are that eight of the gang were shot dead, and four were captured wounded or unhurt. It is anticipated that many of those escaping were also wounded. A full-scale police hunt is now in progress, and all roads out of the Witwatersrand area are under surveillance, together with all airports. It is with deep regret that we announce the death of three members of the South African Police Force, and the critical wounding of two—’

  A ragged cheer rang out through the aircraft, and one or two of the gang clenched their fists over their heads in the Communist salute.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I murmured sarcastically to Timothy and he looked down at me.

  ‘Death is ugly, slavery is worse,’ he said evenly. ‘Doctor, there is a bond between us.’

  ‘My head is sore, my face is too painful to listen to your Communistic cant,’ I told him. ‘Don’t give me fancy words, you bastard. You want to burn my land and soak it in blood. You want to tear down everything I hold dear and sacred. It is my country and with all its faults I love it. You are my enemy. There is no bond between us - except that of the knife.’

  Again we held each other’s eyes for a long moment, then he nodded. ‘To the knife then,’ he agreed and turned away. The Dakota bore on steadily into the north, and my injuries began to ache. I closed my eyes, and rode the long dizzy swells of pain that rose up out of my guts and exploded in my head.

  The Mirage jet came up out of the east and flashed silvery sleek across our nose, and as it passed with incredible speed I saw the Air Force roundels and the goggled face of the pilot staring at us. Then it was gone, but immediately the Tannoy crackled into life.

  ‘ZA-CEE. This is Air Force Red Striker Two. Do you read me?’ I stared out of the window beside my head, and saw the Mirage turn sparkling in the sunlight high above us. Timothy came running forward to the set beside me and stared at it for a moment. The atmosphere was hushed and tense. Timothy could not reply, his Bantu accent was too thick for deception.

  Again the jet howled across our front. The gunman crouched low behind Roger’s seat hidden from view.

  ‘ZA-CEE.’ Again the call was repeated. Timothy was sweating lightly, his face blue-grey with strain and the pain of the arm wound. He turned from the set and motioned to two of his men.

  ‘Bring him,’ he pointed to the white ground engineer. They dragged him into the radio compartment and held him in front of me. His face was pale and shiny with sweat, his terrified eyes held mine in pitiful appeal, the gag cut into his mouth. One of them stood behind him and pulled his head back, exposing his throat and stretching the pale skin so that the arteries showed blue and pulsing. He reached around in front of the man, and laid the glistening blade of a trench knife against his throat.

  ‘I am serious, Doctor.’ Timothy assured me as he freed the rope from my arms and put the microphone of the radio transmitter into my hand. ‘Reassure them. Tell them there are only two aboard, and that you are bound for the City of the Moon on a routine flight.’ He placed his finger on the transmit switch of the set ready to cut it off.

  The terrified engineer moaned into his gag, the knife pressed to the softly throbbing skin of his throat. They pushed him towards me, closer so that I could see his face clearly.

  ‘Air Force Striker Two this is ZA-CEE standing by.’ I croaked into the mike, staring fascinated into the engineer’s terrified face.

  ‘Report your complement and destination.’

  ‘This is Dr Kazin of Sturv
esant, Africa on a routine flight from—’ As I spoke I saw them relax, the tension eased and Timothy’s hand moved from the transmit switch of the set. The engineer’s eyes held mine and I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, that I wished I could save him. I wanted to explain that I was trading his life for those of fourteen of my country’s most dangerous enemies, that the sacrifice was worthwhile, and that I would willingly add my own life to the price. Instead I shouted into the handset:

  ‘Hi-jacked by terrorists! Fire into us! Disregard our safety.’ Timothy’s hand darted to the transmit switch, and at the same moment he turned towards the hostage. I think he was going to intervene, to try and stop it. He was too late.

  The knife slashed across the tensed throat, slitting it deeply beneath the line of the jaw. The blood burst forth like a ruptured garden hose, it sprayed out in a red fountain that drenched both Timothy and me. It pumped in great liquid jets that splashed against the foot of the cabin, then dribbled in thick cords and strings to the floor. The engineer was keening a high wailing sound like steam from a kettle, and the air from his lungs burst from the severed windpipe in a pink froth, that spattered the radio set.

  The Tannoy was squawking, ‘Reverse your course! Conform to me! Conform to me immediately, or I will fire into you.’

  Timothy was cursing as he wrestled the microphone out of my hands: I was screaming and fighting against the ropes.

  ‘You animals! You filthy murdering bloody animals.’

  One of the gang lifted his machine-pistol to hit me in the face, but Timothy knocked his arm away.

  ‘Get him out of here!’ He jerked his head towards the still twitching, kicking corpse of the engineer - and they dragged him out into the cargo hold.

  ‘Mirage is attacking!’ shouted Roger, from the cockpit, and we saw it coming from ahead of us, a silvery flash as it bore in on a head-on interception course.

  Timothy snatched the microphone to his mouth. I saw that his face was speckled with the engineer’s blood.