Golden Fox

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘How?’ Garry demanded.

  ‘That’s your problem. You have Courtney Communications at your beck and call. Get them to come up with some kind of miniature radio or even a transponder. As soon as she is in position, Bella will activate it and give us a fix.’

  ‘OK,’ Garry agreed. ‘We have those electronic position-markers that we use for flagging aerial geological surveys. We should be able to adapt one of those. How will Bella smuggle it in?’

  ‘Again, that’s your problem,’ Sean told him brusquely. ‘Let’s get on with it. So Bella is in the target area. She gives us a fix. We go in—’

  ‘How?’ Garry asked again.

  ‘There is only one way – from the sea.’ Sean swept his hand across the map of the southern Atlantic and down to the nose of the African continent.

  ‘We’ve got the trawling and canning factory at Walvis Bay. One of those new long-range trawlers of yours, Garry, the ones you send down to Veema Seamount. They’ll do nearly thirty knots, and have a range of four thousand miles.’

  ‘Damn it, yes!’ Garry beamed. ‘Lancer has just finished a major refit in Cape Town docks. She is at sea at this very moment, on her way back to Walvis Bay. I’ll tell them to hold her there, fully refuelled and ready for sea. Van Der Berg, the skipper, is a first-class seaman.’

  ‘Tell them to unload the nets and all the other heavy items we won’t need,’ Sean added.

  ‘Right. I’ll also arrange extra war and all-risks cover on the insurance policy. I know the way you bang up equipment.’ Garry was becoming indignant. ‘Hell, you went through four Landcruisers last year.’

  ‘That’s enough squabbling.’ Centaine brought them firmly back on track. ‘Tell us, Sean. Are you going to sail Lancer into this river?’

  ‘No, Nana. We’ll use landing-craft to run into the beach, inflatables with outboard motors. Do you know anybody at Simonstown naval base?’

  ‘I know the minister of defence,’ Bella cut in. ‘And Admiral Keyter.’

  ‘Beauty!’ Sean nodded. ‘If you get the boats, see if you can also get permission for a dozen or so boat-handlers to volunteer for a little extra-curricular fun and games. Those naval commandos are hot babies, and they will fall over themselves for a chance at a good barney. Play up the fact that it’s an ANC training base that we are going to hose down and that we’ll be doing them a good turn.’

  ‘I also know the minister. I will go with Bella to see him,’ Centaine agreed. ‘I guarantee you all the special equipment you need. Just give me a list, Sean.’

  ‘I’ll have it ready by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What about weapons – and men?’

  ‘Scouts,’ Sean told them. ‘They don’t come any better. I trained them myself. I’ll need about twenty men. I know exactly who I want. I’ll talk to Roland Ballantyne right away. Things are pretty quiet up there in Rhodesia at the moment, the rainy season. He’ll let me have them. I might have to break one of his legs, but he’ll let me have them. They’ll need a couple of days of boat training, but they’ll be ready to go by the end of next week.’ He looked across at Isabella. ‘It all depends on you now, Bella. You are our hunting dog. Lead us to them, lass.’

  Eleven days after she sent the Red Rose coded confirmation that Capricorn Chemicals had successfully tested Cyndex 25, Isabella received permission and instructions for a visit to Nicholas. She was instructed to take the South African Airways flight to London that refuelled in Kinshasa on the Congo river and to disembark at this stop-over instead of continuing on to London.

  She would be met at Kinshasa airport.

  ‘It’s looking good.’ Sean was jubilant as he placed his finger on the map. ‘Here’s Kinshasa. It’s within three or four hundred kilometres of the expected target area. They are going to pick you up on the doorstep, not the roundabout route via Nairobi and Lusaka that they sent you on last time.’ He looked across at Isabella. ‘So they want you to take next Friday’s flight? If it works out, that means you will probably be in position on Saturday, or Sunday at the very latest. We will sail from Walvis Bay in Lancer just as soon as I can get up there. The boys have finished their training, and all the equipment is on board Lancer. They have been sitting around doing nothing for almost a week – they’ll be glad to be on their way.’

  He studied the map and then punched his calculator. ‘We can be in position one hundred nautical miles off the mouth of the Congo river by Monday the twelfth. How does that suit you, Garry?’

  Garry stood up and went to the map. ‘I’ll be waiting with the Lear at Windhoek Airport – here. I will make my first fly-over on the night of Monday the twelfth. I’ll have to head out to sea at least five hundred miles before I can turn back. That’s the estimated range of the Cuban radar net in southern Angola. Five hundred miles is well beyond the operational range of the MiG squadron at Lubango.’ He touched the Cuban base on the map. ‘All right, then I’ll hit the coast at the mouth of the Congo here and fly south down the coast until I pick up the signal of Bella’s transponder.’

  ‘Hold on, Garry,’ Shasa intervened. ‘How’s that working out?’

  ‘The boys at Courtney Communications have done a damn fine job in the short time they had available.’ He opened his brief-case. ‘This is it!’

  ‘A bicycle pump?’ Shasa asked.

  ‘Apparently Nicky is a soccer star. He asked Bella to bring him a new ball, and he complained that they had to keep pumping his old ball. The pump is a natural accessory to go with the ball. It should arouse no suspicion. This one is in perfect working order.’ He demonstrated a few strokes of the pump, and the air hissed out in a satisfactory manner.

  ‘The transponder is fitted into the handle of the pump. It has a thirty-day battery life. It is activated simply by twisting the handle like this.’ He showed them. ‘There is one drawback. We have had to make the transponder small enough to fit into the handle, and in the process we have been forced to reduce the power of the signal. It has a range of less than twelve kilometres, even with the very sensitive antenna that we have fitted into the Lear. I’ll have to fly in that close before I pick up the signal.’

  ‘What about Cuban fighters in the north?’ Shasa asked anxiously.

  ‘According to South African intelligence, the nearest squadron is based at Saurimo. I will make one quick run down the coast. As soon as I pick up Bella’s signal, I’ll head back out to sea. I’ve worked it out on paper; even if Cuban radar picks me up as I enter Angolan airspace and they immediately scramble a flight of MiGs from Saurimo, I should be able to turn out and run for it before they can catch me.’

  ‘What about SAMs?’ Shasa persisted.

  ‘Intelligence reports the Cuban SAM regiments are all in the south.’

  ‘And if Intelligence is wrong?’

  ‘Come on, Pater! Sean’s running a hell of a lot more risk than I am.’

  ‘This kind of thing is Sean’s job, and he has not got a wife and a flock of kids.’

  ‘Do we want to get Nicky out – or what?’ Garry turned his back on his father, ending the exchange. ‘All right, where was I? Yes, I pick up Bella’s signal. I turn out to sea and make radio contact with Lancer as she lies off the Congo mouth. I give them the fix on the base, and then I just come on home.’

  ‘I rather think,’ Shasa drawled nonchalantly, ‘that I’ll go along with you for the ride, Garry!’

  ‘Come on, Pater, you’re Battle of Britain vintage. Act your age.’

  ‘I taught you to fly, my boy, and I can still fly circles around you any day of the week.’

  Garry glanced across at Nana for support. Her expression was stony. He threw his hands in the air and began to grin.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Skipper,’ he acquiesced.

  ‘Goodbye, Nana.’ Isabella hugged the old lady with a sudden despairing strength. ‘Pray for us.’

  ‘You just bring my great-grandson here to me, missy. He and I have got a lot of catching up to do.’

  Isabella turned to her father. ‘I lov
e you, Daddy.’

  ‘Not as much as I love you.’

  ‘I have been so stupid. I should have trusted you. I should have come to you right in the beginning.’ She gulped. ‘I’ve done terrible things, Daddy. Things I haven’t told you about yet. I wonder if you’ll ever be able to forgive me.’

  ‘You are my girl.’ His voice was husky. ‘My very special, my only girl. Come back safely – and bring your baby with you.’

  She kissed him and held him hard. Then she whirled and almost ran through the international departures gate of Jan Smuts Airport.

  Centaine and Shasa stood staring after her long after she had disappeared. Overhead the airport loudspeaker system was already calling her flight.

  ‘This is the final call for all passengers travelling on the South African Airways SA 516 to Kinshasa and London.’

  Centaine turned away and took Shasa’s arm. She limped heavily on her stick. Her leg always seemed to get worse when she was worried or under unusual strain.

  The chauffeur had the car parked at the main entrance although one of the traffic constables was trying to move him on. Shasa settled Centaine in the back seat and then went round to the other door and climbed in beside her.

  ‘There is something we haven’t talked about yet.’ Centaine took his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ Shasa agreed. ‘I know what you are going to ask. What have they extorted from Bella? What price have they made her pay?’

  ‘She’s been working for them for years, ever since the birth of the child. That is obvious now.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ Shasa sighed. ‘But I know we’ll have to face it, sooner or later. This bastard who has tied her up is a general in the KGB – so we know who Bella’s masters are.’

  ‘Shasa.’ Centaine hesitated, and then her voice firmed. ‘You recall the Skylight scandal?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘There was a leak – a traitor,’ Centaine pressed on doggedly.

  ‘Bella knew nothing about Skylight. I was very careful to keep her out of it,’ Shasa said hotly.

  ‘Do you remember the Israeli nuclear scientist who came down to Dragon’s Fountain? What was his name — Aaron somebody? Bella had a little fling with him. You told me that her name was in the security register at Pelindaba. She spent the night with him.’

  ‘Mother, you aren’t suggesting . . . ?’ Shasa broke off. ‘My God, do you realize what information she has had access to over the years? As a senator, and as my assistant, most of the sensitive Armscor projects have passed over her desk!’

  ‘The Cyndex project at Capricorn,’ Centaine nodded. ‘She was at the tests only a few weeks back. Why is she being allowed to see Nicholas now? Has she given them some special piece of information, do you think?’

  They were silent for a long time, and then Shasa asked softly: ‘Where does loyalty to the family and to one of our children end – and loyalty and patriotic duty to our country begin?’

  ‘I think that you and I will have to face that question very soon,’ she sighed. ‘But let’s see this other business through first.’

  Lancer was tied up at the hospital jetty alongside the Courtney canning factory in Walvis Bay. She was a 250-foot stern trawler but she had the sleek lines of a modern cruise liner. She had been built to work in any fishery in any ocean, to get there fast, stay at sea for months at a time and then to get back to port just as fast.

  Sean stood on the jetty and looked her over. He did not like her bright yellow paintwork; it was much too visible. On the other hand, her stern chute would make for easy launching and recovery of the landing-boats. Anyway, it was much too late to do anything about the paintwork now, he decided.

  Half the Scouts were lining the rail of the trawler, and as soon as they recognized him they launched into a chorus of ‘Why was He Born So Beautiful?’.

  Sean gave them the finger. ‘No goddam respect,’ he lamented, and ran up the gangway. They were delighted to see him and crowded around him to shake his hand. Much of their enthusiasm was a symptom of boredom; for these highly trained fighting men a week of inactivity had been almost insupportable.

  They were all dressed like trawlermen in worn and faded jeans, tattered woollen jerseys and an assortment of caps and balaclava helmets.

  Sergeant-Major Esau Gondele was a full-blooded Matabele, an old comrade in a dozen desperate contacts and battles. He saluted Sean and then grinned as Sean punched his arm.

  ‘You’re out of uniform, Esau. Take it easy, brother.’

  Twelve of the twenty Scouts that Sean had chosen were Matabele, the others were young white Rhodesians – nearly all of them the sons of ranchers and game wardens and miners who had been brought up in the bush.

  In the Scouts there was no awareness of colour. As Esau Gondele once remarked to Sean: ‘The best cure for racism is have somebody shoot at you. Man, it does not matter then what colour the arse is that comes to save yours – black or white, you’re ready to give it a big fat kiss.’

  Sean had worried about the naval commandos from Simonstown who were handling the inflatables. They were all though young Afrikaners. They might have trouble fitting into this multi-racial team.

  ‘How are you getting on with the rock spiders?’ Sean asked Esau Gondele, using the pejorative slang for an Afrikaner.

  ‘Some of them are my best friends already, but still I wouldn’t want one of them to marry my sister,’ he chuckled. ‘No, seriously, Sean, they’re all right. They know their job. I told them they don’t have to call me Baasie, and they saw the joke.’

  ‘OK, Sergeant-Major. We are leaving port at nightfall. It’s unlikely that there’ll be anybody here taking an interest in us. But we’ll take no chances. You and I are going to check equipment before we sail, and then we’ll brief the boys as soon as we cast off.’

  The crew accommodation was cramped and spartan. The Scouts and the six commandos crowded into the mess, perched on the table and the bunks. Within minutes the air was fogged with cigarette smoke and Lancer pitched and rolled heavily to the thrust of the cold green Benguela current.

  All the Scouts that Sean had chosen were proven sailors who had done boat patrols on the choppy waters of Lake Kariba. Mal de mer was the reason that he had not sent for Matatu. The little Ndorobo would have been puking his heart out by now. It felt strange going into an operation without Matatu at his side, like going on a journey without a St Christopher. Matatu was his good-luck charm. He put that thought out of his mind, and looked round the crowded mess.

  ‘Can you all see?’ Sean had tacked the maps up on the bulkhead. There was a chorus of assent.

  ‘We are heading up here.’ He prodded the map. ‘And the mission is to pick up two prisoners, a woman and a child.’

  There were groans and raspberries of mock disappointment, and Sean grinned.

  ‘It’s OK, don’t panic. There’ll be plenty of gooks. It’s hot guns all the way, gentlemen, and open season.’

  The groans turned to ironic cheers, and Sean waited for them to settle down.

  ‘This is a sketch-map of the target area. As you can see, it’s pretty rough, but it gives you some idea of what to expect. I expect to find the prisoners being held in this compound here, near the beach. Probably in this hut. I will lead the rescue party. We will go in with three of the boats.’

  He noticed Esau Gondele squatting on one of the bunks with a South African naval commando squashed up on each side of him. The three of them were sharing a cigarette, passing the butt from hand to hand as they listened to his briefing. ‘What price apartheid now?’ Sean smiled to himself, and went on.

  ‘If there is going to be any serious trouble, it’s going to come down this road alongside the river from the terrorist camp near the airstrip, here and here. Sergeant-Major Gondele will lead the support unit up the river in the other three boats and set up a road-block to prevent any gooks coming through. You will have to hold there for thirty minutes after you hear the first shot fired. That will g
ive us time to spring the prisoners. Then you pull out and get back down-river and hotfoot out to sea to RZ with Lancer. It’s simple, and it must be quick. We aren’t going to hang around a second longer than necessary, but if you can sort out a few of the uglies while you are about it nobody is going to complain. OK, now we’ll go over it again in detail and tomorrow we’ll practise launching the boats and recovering them again in rough water. We’ll do that every day, plus weapons drill and equipment checks – you aren’t going to have much time to write home before we hit the beach on the night of Tuesday the thirteenth. Keep that date open. Write it down.’

  The commercial flight landed at Kinshasa in the middle of a tropical downpour. Rainwater cascaded down the windows as the aircraft taxied to its berth, and Isabella was soaked in the few seconds that it took to leave the aircraft and board the airport bus.

  As she had been promised, there was someone to meet her as she came through the Customs and Immigration barrier. He was a good-looking young pilot in plain khaki flying-overalls without any insignia or rank. When he greeted her in Spanish she was able to detect the Cuban accent, now that she knew to listen for it.

  He insisted on carrying her suitcase and the box of gifts for Nicky and flirted with her brazenly in the ramshackle taxi that drove them from the main airport building down to the private and charter section of the airfield.

  By the time they got there, the rain had stopped. Although heavy cloud still covered the sky, it was stiflingly hot and humid. He loaded her luggage into the back compartment of a small single-engine aircraft. She did not recognize the type. It carried no insignia other than an enigmatic number, and was painted an overall drab sandy colour.

  ‘Are we going to fly in this weather?’ she asked him. ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

  ‘Ah, señora, if you die you will die in my arms – what a glorious passing!’

  As soon as they were airborne he placed his hand on her thigh, the better to point out the passing scenery.

  ‘Keep your hands on the wheel. Keep your eyes on the road.’ She lifted his hand and gave it back to him. He flashed his teeth and his eyes and laughed as though he had made a conquest.