Rebel Trade

by Don Pendleton

  Taking the pistol with him, Ulenga moved back toward the door.

  Chapter 14

  Bolan raced across Windhoek, but had to slow and take his time approaching Korrthaan Street in Tauben Glen. Among the thought fragments that filled his mind en route was the idea that Boavida might have used Ulenga’s name as bait for Bolan, but it made no difference. The very fact that Boavida knew his name was light years beyond ominous.

  It meant, for all intents and purposes, that Bolan’s comrade had been marked for death.

  Only one question remained: Would Bolan be too late?

  Bolan drove west on San Nujoma Drive from Windhoek Central, staying on it when the road became C28, then caught the Western Bypass, southbound, to approach Tauben Glen from the west. He wound around by that means onto Ibis Street, then Perihuhn.

  His sidetracked thoughts came back into focus as Bolan reached the west end of Korrthaan Street and turned to his right, slowing further for the cruise past Ulenga’s apartment house. Bolan had the number, but he didn’t need it. It could only be the red house with the Nampol cruisers and the ambulance out front.

  On second glance, make that a hearse.

  As Bolan passed, two uniformed attendants were emerging from the front door of the red house with a gurney, straining as they cleared the concrete steps, bearing the dead weight of a rubber body bag. The rear doors of the hearse were open, and he saw another bag already lying on the long rear deck inside it. Two down, then, and Bolan obviously couldn’t stop to ask if either of them was his friend.

  That problem solved itself as Bolan saw a news van, branded with the call sign of a local radio station, turn onto Korrthaan Street from the east. He knew from tuning into the Jetta’s radio since he’d arrived that standards for reporting news in Windhoek were about the same as in the States. If it bleeds, it leads. And since most of the broadcasts were in English, he would have no trouble following the story when it aired.

  How long would that be? With the recent spate of violence, he’d noticed frequent bulletins and “updates,” many a regurgitation of the facts and speculation already reported earlier. Another shooting would be on the air as soon as the reporters could compile some basic information and transmit it to the brass at headquarters for broadcasting.

  All Bolan had to do was wait.

  The hardest job right, despite his ingrained sniper’s patience.

  Putting Korrthaan Street behind him, knowing that a second pass would give the Nampol uniforms due cause to flag him down, Bolan left Tauben Glen and went to find someplace where he could get a cup of coffee, drink it in his car, listen to the breaking news.

  If it was bad…well, by the time he heard the worst confirmed, he would have laid the basic framework for a scheme of shock-and-awe retaliation.

  Scorched earth. And no one would be left standing on the other side when Bolan’s bloody work was done.

  * * *

  “YES, I UNDERSTAND. Keep me informed of any new developments. This number, yes.”

  Captain Fanuel Gurirab cradled the telephone receiver, swallowing the urge he felt to smash it into fragments on his desktop. When he saw the tremor in his hand, he was not sure whether it sprang from rage or self-contempt.

  Throughout his years of service, he had done things—many things—that did not make him proud. Some had been done in the pursuit of justice, or at least of vengeance, where the law had proved itself inadequate. Others were done to make his private life more comfortable and to pave the way for his eventual retirement.

  Even so, until this moment Gurirab had never been complicit in the murder of another Nampol officer. He could not call Ulenga innocent, since the sergeant was apparently involved in vigilante killings with the foreigner who still remained at large, but always in the past Gurirab had found ways to rationalize his behavior, excuse his transgressions. Prohibition of drugs was a failure, so what did it hurt to ignore the popular traffic, and make a small profit himself? The Mayombe Liberation Front waged war against the Angolan government, not Namibia’s. Who really cared if they raised money in Windhoek? Even piracy at sea could be shrugged off. Were not the wealthy shipping companies insured against losses?

  But Gurirab knew that he had crossed a line, and there could be no turning back. He did not contemplate confession or surrender to his own superiors, but wondered how long he could live with the oppressive secret of his crime. A lifetime, possibly…but what did that amount to, in the scheme of things?

  There would, of course, be an investigation of Ulenga’s murder. Gurirab knew he would have a day, or two at most, to polish his report and get the so-called facts in order. As to what he’d say or write about his conversations with Moses Kaujeua, Second Deputy Assistant Minister for Home Affairs, the captain had no clear idea. If he “forgot” that they had spoken, Kaujeua might report it, making Gurirab appear evasive and dishonest. If Gurirab related their discussions, editing the crucial details, Kaujeua might deny them or present a version contradicting Gurirab’s and trip him up.

  The Nampol brass, of course, would side with his superior.

  At least, until they heard Gurirab’s tapes.

  The captain might be weak, corrupt, even an accomplice to murder, but no one could say he was stupid. He understood bureaucracy, and ever since his first promotion beyond sergeant, ten years earlier, Gurirab had been documenting the misconduct of his various superiors. Call it insurance—or a pistol pointed at his heart—if anyone found out before he had to play one of his secret cards in self-defense.

  Perhaps that time had not arrived. Gurirab would not know for sure for a day or two. While he waited, he would draft two separate reports: one that exonerated both himself and Kaujeua of any wrongdoing, and a second one that cast Kaujeua as a foul conspirator, coercing Gurirab into assisting him. Of course, the fact that Gurirab had taped Kaujeua meant that he—the valiant Nampol captain—planned to topple the corrupt assistant minister from the beginning.

  He had simply been too late to save Sergeant Ulenga—who, when all was said and done, had chosen his own fate by turning to a life of crime.

  It was a tidy package, anyway he looked at it.

  It might just save Gurirab’s life—and his career, as well.

  * * *

  THE NEWS FOUND BOLAN sipping mediocre coffee in a parking lot across the street from a convenience store where he had purchased it. He hadn’t lingered at the store itself, because a white man lounging in a car, mid morning, was a curious phenomenon that might be stored away in memory. From where he sat, in shade beside a service station that had given up the ghost and sat collecting dust, he had a clear view of the street and no one could creep up behind him without being seen in Bolan’s rearview mirror.

  Bolan got the word at 10:06 a.m., from an announcer whose tone never varied whether he was reading soccer scores or briefing listeners about mass murder in Sudan. The reader had no names to offer, but he told his audience that a policeman had been killed in Tauben Glen by two or more assailants at his home. One of the gunmen was reported dead, as well, apparently shot by the officer in self-defense. More details were expected to become available…

  Bolan switched off the radio, finished his coffee, and picked up the list of targets he’d compiled with Ulenga, his first day in Windhoek. There were still plenty to choose from, but he wanted something that would hit home with the MLF in no uncertain terms.

  He thought about the Dragunov stowed in the Jetta’s trunk, deciding it was time that he reached out and touched someone.

  But who? And where?

  Why not the MLF’s headquarters on Ompilo Street, in Hakahana? He could take it to the source, and see how Boavida liked it when the war came home to roost.

  Of course, simply removing Boavida wouldn’t finish Bolan’s mission. This appeared to be a case where cutting off t
he snake’s head only meant that it would sprout another, and another after that. The MLF’s commanders would be safe, across the border in Angola, where they could appoint an endless string of proxy leaders for their operation in Namibia.

  As long as they had soldiers.

  And to eliminate the troops, Bolan would need them all together in one place. Not Windhoek, where the collateral damage might be catastrophic. Bolan needed his targets removed to a safe killing ground—safe for innocents, that was. And while he had a spot in mind, ironically, he needed Oscar Boavida to collect his troops.

  So, Hakahana it would be, but with a twist.

  The suburb’s name meant “hurry up” in the Herero language, which was perfect.

  Bolan heard the numbers ticking over in his head, and knew that he was running out of time.

  * * *

  “I UNDERSTAND,” CAPTAIN Acosta told his agitated caller, frowning as he spoke into the telephone. “Perhaps it would be best if you left Windhoek for the present. To deprive your enemy of targets, eh? A cunning strategy.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” Boavida demanded at the far end of the line.

  “What else?” Acosta asked, all innocence. “You’ve called to tell me your decision, have you not? And I believe it is a wise one, in the present circumstances.”

  “But…I thought…” Another silence, as the Angolan struggled to put his thoughts in order, then he asked, “Would it be possible for you to grant me sanctuary?”

  So that’s it, Acosta thought, unable to restrain his smile.

  “Unfortunately,” he replied, “I am in no position to accommodate you in this matter. As I’m sure you realize, my country values its relationship with SWAPO in Angola.”

  “Even while you arm the MLF,” Boavida said, “to unseat the government?”

  “There is no black and white in politics,” Acosta said. “You have experience enough to know that, Oscar. Granting you asylum at the embassy, if that’s what you’re suggesting, could produce a chain reaction of unfortunate events that even I cannot foresee.”

  “What about Cuba, then?” the MLF commander asked, surprising him.

  Acosta sighed. “That raises immigration problems, as I’m sure you recognize,” he answered. “If you leave Namibia, perhaps, and then apply for residency from another country. But it would be a matter for our Ministry of Labor and Social Security. Of course, I would be happy to provide endorsement of your application at the proper time.”

  “I see.” The tone of Boavida’s voice implied dull resignation. “Have you made arrangements yet with my replacement?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Acosta told him, honestly.

  “Whoever may be next in line,” Boavida said, “when I’m dead or driven into exile.”

  “Oscar, why excite yourself?” Acosta asked, hoping that he had managed to project a soothing tone. “You have a good plan, to escape the city for a time and shelter at your stronghold in the countryside. Hold to it. Take as many of your soldiers with you as you can. Let the authorities clean up whatever mess remains.”

  “You know of the policeman?” Boavida asked him, sharply, making no attempt to cover the suspicion in his voice.

  “I have my sources,” Acosta said. “I would be of no use to you if I did not.”

  Boavida made a sound that could have been a simple throat-clearing, or possibly a sneer of rude contempt. Acosta opted to ignore it, waiting for the paranoid Angolan to say more or terminate the call.

  “I can expect no further help, then?” Boavida asked, at last.

  “No further help?” Acosta echoed down the line. “Oscar, you’ve had no end of help since your arrival in Namibia, including both financial and material support, if you recall. I hope that when this crisis is behind us, our relationship remains intact. However, it’s unfair of you, I must say, to expect that I should actually fight your battles for you in the streets.”

  Boavida muttered something—maybe Portuguese, probably a curse of some kind—and the line went dead. Acosta gently cradled the receiver of his telephone and rocked back in his swivel chair. People said Latins were excitable, but Africans, in his experience, tended to be explosive. That was good for revolution—good for business, too—but it made working with their warlords a royal dolor en el culo.

  A pain in the ass.

  Feeling that pain presently, Acosta wondered if a stiff shot of rum would be helpful.

  And answered himself as expected—why not?

  * * *

  HAKAHANA LIES NORTH OF Windhoek proper, between the suburbs of Big Bend and Okuryangava. Ompilo Street runs north-south between Ehonga to Etetwe, lined with various commercial buildings in assorted sizes. The Mayombe Liberation Front’s headquarters was located near the south end of Ompilo, near its intersection with Edimba Street. Even here, so close to Windhoek, pavement seemed to be a problem. While Omuve Street, one block west of Ompilo, had been paved with asphalt, those to the east and west of it had not.

  Bolan cared nothing for the surface underneath the Jetta’s tires, as he went looking for a sniper’s nest. He found it catercornered from the MLF facility, a square three-story block of shops with offices upstairs. Its flat roof would provide the view he needed. All he had to do was climb up there, without encountering civilians on the way, and pick his shot.

  Simple? Not quite.

  A white man carrying a duffel bag that measured four feet long to fit the Russian sniper rifle zipped inside, climbing a service ladder to the rooftop of the building he’d selected, could expect to sound alarms with any local he met along the way. Even with its stock folded, the Dragunov SVDS still measured 44.7 inches from muzzle to pistol grip, and weighed nearly ten pounds without its scope or loaded magazine.

  Bolan relaxed a little when he reached the rooftop without incident and found himself alone up there. Crossing the roof to reach the building’s southwest corner, he sat down, opened his bag, and set about his final preparation of the Dragunov. First step: unfold the 12.6-inch stock. Next step: retrieve a ten-round double-stacked box magazine and slot it into the rifle’s receiver. Third: attach a foot-long silencer over the weapon’s slotted flash suppressor.

  Last, but certainly not least, Bolan removed the PSO-1 telescopic sight—short for Pritsel Snaipersky Optichesky, “optical sniper sight” in Russian—from its separate carrying case and attached it to his weapon with the proprietary quick-release mounting bracket. That done, he used the sight to peer across Ompilo Street and find his target.

  Soldiers were hustling around MLF headquarters, loading bags and boxes into SUVs out front and in a parking lot behind the building. Bolan watched them, realizing that he’d barely made it in the nick of time as they cleaned out the place, preparing to evacuate. He had a fair idea of where they would be going, thanks to Ulenga’s briefing at the onset of their short campaign, and Bolan hoped to send them off in style. Not leaderless—at least, not yet—but in a hell-for-leather hurry that would ramp up their anxiety and keep it off the chart.

  Five minutes after setting up his vigil, Bolan spotted Boavida exiting the building through the rear. Soldiers surrounded him, weapons barely concealed as they escorted the man to a waiting Land Rover. Bolan scoped in the hustling group and fixed his crosshairs on a skull immediately to the left of Boavida’s, and zeroed on the flesh just visible behind a small pierced ear.

  He squeezed the rifle’s trigger, then swung at once to Boavida’s right without assessing his first shot, and fired again. Five coughing noises from the Russian piece, in all, and Boavida stood alone, cringing without a bit of cover in the parking lot, bodies and blood strewn everywhere around his feet.

  When Boavida began to scream, Bolan retreated from the roof’s edge, swiftly breaking down his weapon, stowing it away. If his luck held, and he could ma
ke it to the Jetta without meeting any obstacles, he could begin the drive to Boavida’s hideaway.

  A ghost town in the desert.

  And when the Executioner was finished, it would have a few more ghosts in residence.

  * * *

  “HOW DID HE MISS ME? How? The others…all dead! Did you see them?”

  Boavida knew that he was babbling, but he could not seem to stop. Even as one of his soldiers wiped the cooling blood and gray matter from Boavida’s cheek with a large handkerchief, the MLF’s commander could not hold his tongue.

  “To kill five men around me… How could I survive?”

  “Maybe he only had five bullets in the magazine,” one of his bodyguards suggested.

  “Do you think so?” Boavida asked him.

  Which provoked a shrug. “It’s possible,” the soldier said. “Some rifles only hold five rounds.”

  “The bodies,” Boavida said, then stopped himself. There’d been no time for moving corpses when he’d fled, much less concealing them effectively. Police would find the dead men where he’d left them and begin to search for him, as well. His luck was running out in Windhoek. Bribes could only stretch so far.

  But they would not find him in Kolmanskop.

  His choice of an emergency retreat had been inspired, if Boavida did say so himself. Not only isolated and abandoned in the southern Namib Desert, but reputed to be overrun with ghosts of former residents—black miners who’d been overworked and underpaid by German masters for a grim half century until the diamond fields played out. The unmarked graves of hundreds had been left behind, forgotten and reclaimed by shifting sands.

  Namibians steered clear of Kolmanskop, encouraged to avoid it during recent years by Boavida’s men, who spread rumors of hauntings through the rural villages and made sure any trespassers were never seen again. It should be simple to hide out there, waiting for the storm in Windhoek to subside.

  And after that?

  Clearly, it would be necessary to repair some ties with the Namibian officials who had managed to ignore the MLF before the recent troubles started. With journalists involved and asking questions, it would be more difficult for Boavida and his men to operate in anything approximating secrecy. More difficult, but not impossible perhaps.