Power of the Sword c-10

by Wilbur Smith

  She heard Roelf come through and begin undressing in the bathroom, the double thump-thump as he dropped his boots, then a little later the bedroom door creaked and the bed tipped under his weight. She pretended to be sleeping. It was the first time he had ever stayed out this late. He had changed so much since Manfred had returned.

  She lay unsleeping in the darkness and thought, He is the bringer of trouble. He will destroy us all. I hate you, Manfred De La Rey. Beside her she knew Roelf was not sleeping either. He was restless and strung up. The hours passed slowly, and she forced herself to lie still. Then the baby whimpered and she took her into the bed and gave her one of her breasts.

  Sarah's milk had always been strong and good, and the baby drank and burped and dropped back to sleep. She returned her to the cot, and the moment she slipped back under the sheet Roelf reached for her. Neither of them spoke, and she steeled herself to accept him. She hated this. It was never like it had been on those well-remembered occasions with Manfred. However, tonight Roelf was different. He mounted her quickly, almost brutally, and ended swiftly with a hoarse wild cry and he fell off her into a deep sleep. She lay and listened to him snore.

  At breakfast she asked him quietly, Where were you last night? instantly he was angry. Hold your mouth, woman, he shouted at her, using the word bek, the mouth of an animal not a human being. You are not my keeper. You are involved in some dangerous foolishness. She ignored the warning. You have three little ones, Roelf. You cannot afford stupidity Enough, woman! he yelled at her. This is man's business.

  You keep out of it. Without another word he left for the university, where he was a lecturer in the law faculty. She knew that in ten years he could have the chair, if only he didn't get into trouble before that.

  After she had cleaned the house and made the beds, she put the children into the big double pram and pushed them down the sidewalk towards the centre of the village. She stopped once to talk with one of the other university wives, and again to buy sugar suckers for the two big children.

  Then, as she was paying for the candy, she noticed the headlines of the newspapers piled on the counter.

  I'll take a Burger as well. She crossed the road and sat on a park bench while she read the story of the explosion of a goods train somewhere in the karoo. Then she folded the paper neatly and sat thinking.

  Roelf had left after lunch the previous day. The explosion had occurred at a little before ten-thirty p.m. She worked out times and distances, and slowly a cold crippling dismay made her belly cramp. She put the children back in the pram and crossed to the post office. She parked the pram beside the glass telephone booth where she could keep an eye on it.

  Central, please give me the main police station in Cape Town. 'Hold the line. Suddenly the enormity of what she was about to do broke m upon her. How could she turn Manfred De La Rey over to the police without betraying her own husband to them at the same time, and yet she knew it was her duty to stop Roelf doing these terrible things that must lead to disaster.

  It was her duty to her husband and to her babies.

  This is the Cape Town central police station. May I help you? 'Yes, Sarah stuttered, and then No, I'm sorry. It doesn't matter. It isn't important. She hung up, ran out of the booth and wheeled the pram determinedly back towards the cottage. She sat at the kitchen table and wept softly, bewildered and alone and uncertain. Then after a while she wiped her eyes on her apron and made herself a cup of coffee Shasa parked the Jaguar across the road from Blaine Malcomess home, but he did not get out at once. He sat and considered what he was about to attempt.

  Probably make an idiot of myself again, he thought, and tilted the rearview mirror so that he could see himself in it.

  He ran a comb through his hair and adjusted the eye-patch carefully. Then he climbed out.

  Vehicles were parked bumper to bumper down both sides of Newlands Avenue. It was a big party, two or three hundred guests, but then Blaine Malcomess was a big man and his daughter's engagement an important event.

  Shasa crossed the road. The front doors were wide open, but still it was difficult to get into the house. Even the lobby was crowded, and the party was in full swing. A coloured band was belting out The Lambeth Walk and Shasa could see into the lounge where the dancers were prancing around merrily. He pushed his way through to the bar. Even Blaine Malcomess couldn't offer whisky, it just wasn't obtainable any longer. Nowadays it was considered patriotic to drink Cape brandy, but Shasa ordered a ginger ale.

  My drinking days have come and gone,he thought wryly and, glass in hand, eased his way through the packed rooms, shaking hands with old friends, kissing the cheeks of the women, many of whom he had at one time or another kissed with more purpose.

  So good to see you back, Shasa. They tried not to notice the black eye-patch, and after a few seconds he moved on, searching for her.

  She was in the dining-room with the coloured chef and two maids, supervising the final touches to the elaborate buffet dinner.

  She looked up and saw him and froze. She was wearing a filmy light evening dress the colour of ash of roses, and her hair was down to her shoulders. He had forgotten how her eyes could shine like mother-of-pearl, grey mother-ofpearl.

  She made a gesture dismissing the servants, and he went slowly to meet her.

  Hello, Tara, I'm back,he said.

  Yes, I heard. You've been back five weeks. I thought you might, she stopped and studied his face. I heard you were decorated, she touched the ribbon on his chest. And that you were wounded. She studied his face frankly, not avoiding looking at his left eye. Then she smiled. It makes you look very dashing. it doesn't make me feel dashing. I can sense that, she nodded. You have changed. Do you think so? she shook her head, irritated that she could not find the precise word. Yes, you aren't so, Not so brash, so cock-sure. I want to talk to you, he said. Seriously. All right, she nodded. 'What is it? Not here, he said. Not with all these people. No 'Tomorrow? Tomorrow will be too late. Come with me now.

  Shasa, are you mad? This is my party, my engagement party. 'I'll bring the jag around to the tradesmen's entrance, he said. 'You'll need a wrap, it's cold out. He parked the jag close in against the wall. This was where they used to conduct those long lingering farewells.

  He switched off the headlights. He knew she would not come, but nevertheless, he waited.

  His surprise was genuine, his relief intense when she pulled open the door and slid into the passenger's seat. She had changed into slacks and a rollneck sweater. She wasn't going back to the party.

  Drive! she said. Get away from here. They were silent for a while, and he glanced at her every time a street lamp lit the interior.

  She was looking straight ahead smiling faintly, and at last she spoke.

  You never needed anything or anyone before. That was the one thing I couldn't stand about you. He did not reply.

  I think you need me now. I sensed it the very moment I saw you again. You truly need me at last. He was silent, words seemed superfluous. Instead he reached across and took her hand.

  I'm ready for you now, Shasa, she said. Take me somewhere we can be alone, entirely alone. There was enough moon to light the pathway. She clung to him for support and they laughed breathlessly with excitement and stopped halfway down the cliff to kiss.

  He let them into the shack and lit the paraffin lamp. With relief Shasa saw that the servants from Weltevreden had followed his orders. There was fresh linen on the bunk, and the floor had been polished.

  Tara stood in the centre of the floor, her hands clasped protectively in front of her, her eyes huge and luminous in the lamplight, and she began to tremble when he took her in his arms.

  Shasa, please be gentle, she whispered. I'm so scared. He was patient and very gentle, but she had no yardstick by which to recognize how immensely skilled and certain he was. She only knew that he seemed to sense each nuance of change in her feelings, anticipating each response of her body so that she felt no shame at her nakedness, and all her ot
her fears and doubts dissolved swiftly under his tender hands and soft loving lips. At last she found herself running ahead of him, learning swiftly to guide and encourage him with subtle little movements and small gasps and cries of approval.

  So that at the end she gazed up at him with wonder, and whispered, huskily, I never thought, I never dreamed it would be like that. Oh, Shasa, I'm so glad you came back to me. The Fordsburg branch of the Standard Bank serviced all the gold mines of the Central Rand complex. all the wages of the tens of thousands of weekly paid black mine workers were drawn from this branch and the senior accountant was a member of the O B.

  His name was Willem De Kok, a small pasty-faced runt of a man with myopic misty eyes behind thick lenses, but his looks were deceptive. Within a few minutes of their meeting Manfred De La Rey found he had a quick mind, a complete dedication to the cause and almost too much courage for his small body.

  The money comes in on Thursday afternoon, between five and six o'clock. They use an armoured car and there is a police escort on motorcycles. That isn't the time to do it.

  There would almost certainly be shooting. I understand, Manfred nodded. Before you go on, please tell us how much money is usually transferred. Between fifty thousand and seventy thousand pounds Thursday of each month, when we make except on the last provision for the monthly paid workers on the mine properties. Then it will be closer to a hundred thousand. In addition there is always our ordinary cash float of approximately twenty-five thousand. They were gathered in the home of one of the mine officials of the Crown Deep gold mines. The same man had recruited the local stormiagers for the operation. He was a big red-faced man named Lourens, with the look of a heavy drinker. Manfred was not entirely happy with him; although so far he had found no real cause for his mistrust, he felt the man would be unreliable under stress.

  Thank you, Meneer De Kok, please go on. The bank manager, Mr Cartwright, opens the back door of the building and the money is brought in. Of course, at this time in the afternoon the bank is closed to normal business. Mr Cartwright and I, together with our two senior tellers, count the money and issue a receipt. it is then deposited in the vault and locked up for the night. I have one key and half of the combination. Mr Cartwright keeps the other key and has the other half of the combination. That would be the time, Manfred anticipated. After the police escort has left, but before the vault is locked. That is a possibility, De Kok nodded. However, at that time it will still be light. Many people on the streets. Mr Cartwright is a difficult man, many things could go wrong.

  May I tell you how I would arrange it, if I were in command? ,Thank you, Meneer De Kok. I'm glad of your assistance. It was ten minutes before midnight when Mr Peter Cartwright left the Freemason hall at the end of the meeting. He was the master of the lodge and he was still wearing his apron over his dinner jacket. He always parked his Morris in the lane behind the hall, but tonight as he sat in the driver's seat and fumbled with the ignition key, something hard was pressed into the back of his neck and a cold voice said quietly, This is a pistol, Mr Cartwright. If you do not do exactly as you are told, you will be shot in the back of the head. Drive to the bank, please. Terrified for his life and following the instructions of the two masked men in the back seat of the Morris, Peter Cartwright drove to the bank building and parked the Morris near the back door. There had been a spate of bank robberies over the last few months, at least four on the Witwatersrand and during one of them a bank guard had been shot dead.

  Cartwright was in no doubt as to the danger of his position or the ruthlessness of his captors.

  As soon as he climbed out of the Morris, they closed on each side of him, pinning his arms and hustling him to the back door of the bank.

  One of them tapped upon it with the butt of his pistol and to Cartwright's astonishment it opened immediately. Only when he was inside did he realize how the robbers had gained access. His senior accountant Willem De Kok was already there, in pyjamas and dressinggown, his hair tousled and his face slack and ashen with terror. He had obviously been dragged from his bed.

  I'm sorry, Mr Cartwright,he blubbered. They forced me. Pull yourself together, man, Cartwright snapped at him, his own fear making him brusque, then his expression changed as he saw the two women: De Kok's fat little wife and his own beloved Mary in hair curlers and pink fulllength dressing-gown with artificial pink roses down the front.

  Peter, she wailed. Oh Peter, don't let them do anything. Stop that, Mary. Don't let them see you like that. Cartwright looked around at his captors. There were six of them, including the two who had waylaid him, but his training in character judgement enabled him to pick out the leader almost immediately, a tall, powerfully built man with a dense black beard curling out from under his cloth face-mask, and above the mask a pair of strangely pale eyes, like those of one of the big predatory cats. His fear turned to real terror when he looked into those yellow eyes, for he sensed that there was no compassion in them.

  Open the vault, the man said. His English was heavily accented.

  I don't have the key, Cartwright said, and the man with yellow eyes seized Mary Cartwright by the wrist and forced her to her knees.

  You wouldn't dare, Cartwright blustered, and the man placed the muzzle of his pistol to Mary's temple.

  MY wife is going to have a baby, Cartwright said.

  Then you will want to spare her any further unpleasantness. open it for them, Peter. Let them have it. It's not our money, Mary screamed. It's the bank's. Give it to them, And she began to urinate in little spurts that soaked through the skirts of her dressing-gown.

  Cartwright went to the green Chatwood steel door of the vault and drew his watch chain from his fob pocket with the key dangling on the end of it. Anger and humiliation seethed in him as he tumbled the combination and turned the key. He stood back while De Kok came forward to do the same. Then, while all their attention was on the vault door as it swung open, he glanced across at his desk. He kept the pistol in the top right-hand drawer. It was a .455 service Webley and there was always a round under the hammer.

  By now his outrage at the treatment of his wife outweighed his terror.

  Get the money! the leader with the pale eyes ordered and three of the robbers, carrying canvas kit bags, hurried into the vault.

  My wife, Cartwright said, I must see to her. Nobody interfered as he lifted her to her feet and helped her to the desk. Tenderly he settled her into the chair, keeping up a flow of reassurance that covered the soft scrape as he opened the drawer.

  He lifted the pistol and slipped it into the pocket of his masonic apron.

  Then he backed away, leaving his wife at the desk. He had both hands raised to shoulder level in an attitude of surrender as he rejoined De Kok against the far wall. Both women were out of the line of his fire, but he waited until the three robbers re-emerged from the vault, each of them lugging a kitbag stuffed with wads of banknotes. Again all attention was on those bulging canvas bags, and Cartwright reached into the pocket of his white leather apron, brought out the pistol and his first shot crashed across the room in a long spurt of blue gunsmoke. He kept firing as the Luger bullets smashed into his body, and he was flung back against the wall. He fired until the hammer of the Webley snapped down on a spent cartridge, but his last bullet had gone into the concrete floor between his feet, and he was dead as he slumped down the bullet-pocked wall and huddled at the foot of it, with his blood puddling under him.

  SHOOT-OUT AT RAND BANK TWO DEAD ROBBERY LINKED TO O B The letters OB caught Sarah Stander's eye on the placard outside the news-stand. She went in and bought candy for the children, as she always did, and then, as an apparent afterthought, she took a copy of the newspaper.

  She crossed to the park and while the two toddlers romped on the lawn and she absently rocked the pram. with her foot to keep the baby quiet, she read the front-page article avidly.

  Mr Peter Cartwright, the manager of a bank in Foraisburg, was last night shot dead while attempting to prevent a robber
y at the bank's premises. One of the robbers was also shot dead, while a second man was seriously wounded and taken into custody by the police.

  First estimates are that the four remaining robbers fled with cash in excess of 5,100,000.

  police spokesman said this morning that preliminary interrogation of the wounded robber had established definite involvement by members of the Ossewa Brandwag in the outrage.

  The Minister of the Interior, Colonel Blaine Malcomess, announced from his office in the House of Parliament in Cape Town that he had ordered an enquiry into the subversive activities of the O B and that any member of the public with information to offer should contact the nearest police station or telephone the following numbers: Johannesburg 78I 4, Cape Town 42444. The minister gave the assurance that all information would be treated in the strictest confidence.

  She sat for almost an hour, trying to reach a decision, torn between loyalty to her family and her patriotic duty to her own people.

  She was confused, terribly confused. Was it right to blow up trains and rob banks and kill innocent people in the name of freedom and justice? Would she be a traitoress if she tried to save her husband and her babies?

  And what about those other innocents who were certain to die if Manfred De La Rey were allowed to continue? She could readily imagine the strife and chaos that would result if the entire country were to be plunged into civil war. She looked at the newspaper again and memorized the telephone number.

  She stood up, called the children and wheeled the pram across the road. As she reached the far sidewalk and started towards the post office, she noticed old Mr Oberholster, the postmaster, watching her from the window of his office. She knew that he was one of them, she had seen him in OB I uniform when he came to the cottage to pick Roelf up for one of their meetings.

  immediately she felt panicky with guilt. All telephone calls went through the post office exchange. Oberholster might easily listen in on her conversation, or the operator might recognize her voice. She turned away and pushed the pram down towards the butcher as though that had originally been her intention. She bought two pounds of pork chops, Roelf's favourite dinner, and hurried back to the cottage, eager to be off the street, to be alone so she could think.