by J E Higgins
Slipping deeper into the tree line, Sauwa watched the doors to the Mitsubishi burst open. Two men exited from the front seat. One of the men ─ a tall, lanky, sandy-haired fellow ─ met the old farmer in a familiar embrace. A relative perhaps.
All three treated the other man ─ a short, balding fellow with a highly visible, bulging gut ─ with more professional ceremony. The fat man must be of particular importance. The old couple acted hesitantly toward him. Sauwa presumed he was an unexpected visitor.
The fat man quickly took charge of the conversation. Even from a distance, Sauwa could see he was abrasive and direct in his behavior. He jabbed his finger first at Rowan and then at Shanna. Both responded as penitent servants having just offended the fiefdom lord ─ a role the fat man was certainly playing. The brief conversation ended with Rowan extending his arm and pointing in the direction where Sauwa was hiding. The fat man waved the old couple away as Sauwa began walking toward him.
Sauwa held her position and reached for her pistol. It didn’t seem likely that a double-cross was in play. The two strange men didn’t look or act the part of seasoned gunmen. She had dealt with enough of those in her time to know a professional when she saw one. Lanky and fat man both behaved more like management than field operatives. They seemed oblivious to everything except the old couple. These types usually liked to keep their distance from the violence and criminality.
The old couple came to the bush line and stopped.
Rowan cautioned his wife to stay put as he slowly moved forward. “Sauwa, it’s alright; nothin’s wrong. We’ve got someone who wants to speak to ya.”
Sauwa emerged from the bushes only a few feet away from the old man.
His eyes fell on the pistol in her hands. “There’s no need for that. Someone needs a word with ya.”
“It looked like you were surprised to see him.” She stared coldly at the old man. “Like him being here was not something expected or common.”
“Well…” Rowan struggled to find his words. “He’s a man of importance who works for people high up in the UVF. It’s not protocol for him to be comin’ to safe houses like this. He came all the way from Belfast to speak with you.”
Sauwa tucked the pistol back into her pants. “I’m assuming he didn’t tell you why he wanted to speak with me.”
The old man shook his head. “Nor did we ask. He just said to fetch ya and offer him some privacy to speak with you alone.”
Sauwa followed the old man as he started out of the tree line. She emerged from the cover of the shrubbery in view of the two strangers, feeling naked. The three of them crossed the field, the old couple staying just in front of her. As they neared the house, the two men started walking toward them, the tall, lanky man taking the lead.
“Thank you for this,” the lanky man said when they finally met. “This is her, uh?” He looked her over as if unsure he had the right person.
“It is,” the fat man cut in, clearly impatient to get to the point. “I know the infamous Sauwa Catcher by sight and by methods,” he said, bragging. He stared at her, his eyes expressionless. “You don’t know me, but I’ve seen you a few times when I was in London. I know the man you answered to, Devon Williams.”
Sauwa’s eyes lit up. For the second time in an hour, the Civil Cooperation Bureau ─ the CCB ─ reached out from her past.
The CCB was created to distance the South African government from the more sensitive clandestine exploitations within the covert war. Many covert operations by South African intelligence wound up leading back to the South African embassy. As a result, the CCB was set up to operate independently from the government ─ through a series of front companies ─ to carry out a more aggressive campaign against the African National Congress and other Black Nationalist groups.
Devon Williams had run the ultra-secret unit within the CCB, a unit designed to infiltrate British left-wing political groups who ─ from the safety of the United Kingdom ─ were working with South African Black Nationalists. Devon’s unit was comprised mostly of Rhodesian born, white South Africans who could blend into the British landscape. It operated to infiltrate the British left-wing political groups that were working with black nationalists. It also had the extended mission to carry out more ambitious attacks against these left-wing organizations as well as high-profile targets in the black movement.
To this end, the CCB relied on assistance from local elements, either criminal or sympathetic, to obtain necessary support and equipment. The Protestant Loyalist of Northern Ireland, particularly the Ulster Volunteer Force, was one such group. It had been an essential ally for the campaign carried out in England.
“I…I’ve never...” Sauwa couldn’t find the words.
“Met me,” the fat man finished her sentence. “You never have. I worked in the shadows through intermediaries. But, on occasion, I saw you from a distance. My people, who assisted in some of your complicated missions, bore witness to your abilities and ruthlessness as a killer and terrorist. They were quite impressed. My dear, I’m well acquainted with your professional history.”
Sauwa didn’t answer. She took an immediate dislike to the fat man.
He continued. “Hence, I wish to speak to you privately about a rather serious matter ─ one of grave importance. Shall we?” He lifted his hand signaling her to move in a direction away from the house. She looked about at the others and saw only blank looks on their faces as they stood like statues.
Leaving the old couple and the lanky man behind, the two strode side by side. Sauwa could see the sweat stains soaking through the armpits and neckline of the man’s white collared shirt. Two birds fighting on the branch of a tree just above them captured his attentions.
“Birds have always interested me,” he said as they walked.
It was strange that such a man, so impatient to get down to business before, should now want to waste time on topics of leisure. She assumed he was only making small talk until they had enough distance from the rest of the group. Whatever he wanted, it was not for their ears.
When they were far enough away, his conversation became more serious. “My name is Simon.”
“That’s not your real name, is it?” Sauwa’s voice was a cold, abrupt whisper.
The fat man chuckled, and for the first time, he cracked a smile. “No, it’s not. But, for the purposes of this meeting, it will suffice.”
Simon folded his arms across his chest. “I imagine you must be ruminating over the ending of Apartheid. It’s never easy to see the cause you fought and risked so much for come to an end. I hear they’re even looking at the possibility of a ‘darky’ being the next president ─ even the convicted terrorist, Nelson Mandela.”
“On the contrary,” Sauwa scoffed. “I’m glad to see it end. It was a horrible system that should never have been implemented.”
Simon’s face remained stoic. “Yet, you fought for it.”
Sauwa drew her lips into a firm, straight line. “I fought for my adopted country against black terrorists. The Apartheid was an invention of racists; a system set up under the fervor of Afrikaner nationalism and their belief that they were superior to everyone else, my dear Irishman. They called English the language of the conqueror and set about forcing Afrikaner culture on everyone, including those whites of British origin. I’m Rhodesian by birth. My ancestors hailed from these very lands we now walk. My people came to South Africa when the equally racist regime of Ian Smith crumbled. They needed our expertise fighting guerrillas and operating covert wars because the violence had spread to their country.”
“The way you speak, I have to wonder if you’re not sympathetic to the Black Nationalist,” Simon said, a little smugly.
“I can’t say the blacks don’t have their grievances,” Sauwa replied coldly. “In truth, it was the government policies that brought everyone to violence. Bantus couldn’t even march or protest for rights. As a result, they flocked to the radicals and extremists who advocated a violent overthrow.
My
people fled Rhodesia after a black-dominated government emerged under such circumstances. Mugabe’s regime was just as racist, more corrupt and has run my country into the ground.
I wasn’t going to let such a thing happen in South Africa if I could help prevent it. I chose the lesser of two evils. My hope was that more enlightened minds on both sides would have eventually seen fit to create a more amenable system that benefitted all sides ─ not just Afrikaners and not just whites.” That she was speaking so freely about herself and so intimately on such delicate matters was not lost on her. She had been guarded with everyone, including the old couple who gave her sanctuary. But Simon knew so much about her and her activities with Devon Williams’s special unit, it seemed pointless to be secretive.
Simon nodded, but his face remained expressionless. “Given what I know about the infamous Sauwa Catcher, I hardly expected such thinking. In truth, I expected a cold, single-minded killer with a firm racist streak.”
Sauwa sighed. “So, what is it you need to discuss with me? A man of your importance doesn’t come out to the middle of nowhere for nothing. He certainly wouldn’t risk himself to meet with a fugitive unless it was something important.”
“Business, my child.” Simon stopped in his tracks. He turned to face her. “Regarding your particular expertise.”
She didn’t turn. She didn’t look at the balding, fat man, even though she could feel him eyeing her intently.
Simon pressed on, “My organization has a problem. One that requires an outsider to take care of it. We figured with your current disposition, you would be in the market for such a job. It’s important. So much so, I’ve been authorized by my superiors to offer you a hundred thousand pounds sterling for your services.”
Sauwa took a breath. She didn’t like where this was going. “I don’t do that anymore. In a few days’ time, I intend to get a new identity, and from there I plan to turn away from all this and disappear to enjoy a legitimate life. I’m not the one you need for whatever you intend to do.”
Simon pursed his lips, then they gradually morphed into an unnerving smile. “Don’t play naive with me, girl. Naiveté doesn’t suit you. I know you lost your South African connections, and your own country wants nothing to do with you.” The fat man stared coldly at her. “You’re Sauwa Catcher, the Apartheid’s most lethal operator. You’ve killed dozens of key people, important people, people who were in organizations that are now becoming part of the political leadership of South Africa. You’ve also killed British citizens as part of your little war. It’s common knowledge that the old security organizations you answered to are now being integrated with counterparts of your former enemies. Your government intends to play nice with the world by opening secret archives and holding investigations into the security services, and what they did in all those years of your dirty war.”
Though she didn’t show it, a creeping fear was overtaking her. The fat man’s words had sent a cold chill down her spine.
Simon paused for only a few moments. As a longtime operator in the shadowy conflict of the Irish Troubles, he had learned to assess the fortitude of young men. He had acquired, over the years, a good instinct for sizing up an operator he was about to send on a dangerous mission. The young woman was certainly hard to read ─ the sign of a professional.
However, he knew his words were having an effect. He let her soak up their meaning before he spoke again. “It’s only a matter of time before the British government has a full record of your organization and its activities carried out in Europe. When that happens, the police here will have a list of all your victims and all the evidence to prosecute. You’re already high up on the roles as a criminal in both countries. When those records are made public, you’ll be too hot to just disappear. They’ll likely set up a whole task force just to hunt you and the rest of your kind down to bring you all to justice.”
Simon’s words resonated. Sauwa began rubbing her head as she began to realize the enormity of her situation. The fat man was right. She was wanted now for what had been released from South Africa to the various authorities in Europe. As the government in South Africa transitioned from Apartheid, it was inevitable they would do exactly as Simon was predicting. In a short conversation, a man she didn’t even know had completely obliterated her dream of possibly disappearing and eventually being forgotten.
After what seemed like ages, she looked up at the fat man. His face was casting a sinister portrait. “I guess I don’t have much choice. What is it you need me to do?”
Simon glanced at the trio they had left behind. They were all standing about awkwardly. “Not here. I’ll make arrangements for us to meet at a more secure location in a few days to discuss the mission further. Until then, no one need know of this, so don’t discuss it with the farmer and his wife. I suggest you keep yourself in shape and sharpen up on your skills.”
With that, Simon started back toward the trio, leaving Sauwa alone in the middle of the field to ponder what had just happened.
4
David O’knomo walked about the Concilium building like a small child venturing into the forbidden lair of his father’s private office. It was a strange sensation for the young former MK (Umkhonto we Sizwe - Spear of the Nation) fighter.
For so long, he had known of the Concilium only as a sinister place. It was the headquarters of the infamous National Intelligence Service (NIS) ─ one of South Africa’s prime intelligence organs ─ and a predecessor to the once dreaded Department of National Security, the old-time foreign counter-revolutionary arm of the Apartheid. So many of O’knomo’s friends, compatriots and even family had been killed, disappeared or tortured by the NIS, many perhaps in this very building.
Since the early eighties, the NIS had taken on a different, more professional image under the directorship of Dr. Niel Barnard. It had gone from a thuggish secret police group to becoming strictly an intelligence gathering and processing organization.
Strangely, the Concilium was not what he expected. The building was a structure of dreary, grey walls and severely worn carpeting that had needed to be replaced a long time ago. It was hardly the image he had conjured up of dungeon-like basements, torture rooms and offices littered with maps and photographs glossed over by operatives preparing for some assassination or other nefarious covert mission. Still, it did not make O’knomo feel any less unnerved. He progressed through the corridors thinking about the ominous history housed within these walls.
He felt out of place in his light grey suit. After so many years wearing nothing but green and camouflage jungle fatigues, a business suit seemed to hang about him like a circus clown costume. It had been only a few weeks since he’d been squatting in a jungle base camp in Namibia, washing himself in a river, eating hunted meat and defecating into a hole in the ground.
Moving through the Concilium, about to start his new job with the African National Congress ─ the ANC ─ everything seemed surreal to him like it was all a dream or an incredibly obscene joke. He looked at his colleagues wandering about with pensive demeanors. It was clear none of the former guerrillas felt comfortable here.
It took them several minutes of navigating the drab labyrinth of hallways, but O’knomo and his people finally approached a set of brown double doors. The doors were guarded by a tall, lanky man with a neat crop of sandy blond hair. The lanky figure towered over them. He looked like an office clerk ─with an awkward manner and a bulge in his gut exposing his unhealthy diet and lack of exercise ─ who had probably never even seen the jungles, much less fought in one.
“Good day gentlemen,” the lanky man said. “Are you the ANC representatives for this afternoon’s meeting?”
The leader of O’knomo’s group, a small, frail man with a receding hairline and graying black hair looked up from under his horn-rimmed glasses. “We are here to meet Johan Van Wessan and his staff.” He produced a slip of paper from his leather briefcase and handed it to the sentry.
Taking only a quick glance, the lanky fel
low nodded his head obligingly and opened the doors. Beckoning the ANC party in, the sentry stood to the side to allow entry. The party passed into the room. O’knomo gave no further consideration to the office clerk.
“This will be fun,” smirked a young man, who walked next to O’knomo. “I hope the boss shows these assholes who are now in charge.”
“Keep focused on the business at hand,” O’knomo said in a low commanding voice.
The meeting room was as drab as the hallways ─ worn brown carpet and no pictures hanging on the grey walls. Inside was a long, wood table surrounded by a loose collection of plastic chairs. An assorted group of men ranging from gruff and weathered old spy veterans to younger, energetic and more academic looking individuals sat across the table taking up half of the space.
A man in his mid-forties and sporting a dark, black suit came around the table toward the ANC delegation with a forced smile.
“Mr. Gahima, I presume,” the man asked as he extended his arm to offer a handshake. Mr. Gahima, the small man who had offered the papers to the clerk outside, stepped forward to receive it, his own face showing a painfully forced look of friendliness.
“I am Johan Van Wessan of the National Intelligence Service.”
The two former enemies shook hands a little tentatively followed by Van Wesson waving his hands toward the empty chairs around the table, inviting the ANC delegates to sit down. Obligingly, Gahima motioned his people to take their seats.
O’knomo sank into a hard, plastic office chair finding himself directly across from a grizzled, white man who was grimacing at him. It was clear the old spy was not the least bit used to the idea of sharing a table with a Bantu, and a nationalist radical at that. To the young MK fighter’s dismay, the arrogant smartass who had made all the comments coming in sat beside him. O’knomo’s first thought was to hurry up and sit somewhere else, but it was too late. All the other chairs had been taken, and he was left facing an old racist and next to a cocky upstart.