by J E Higgins
When all were seated, Mr. Gahima wasted no time. He immediately jumped into the discussion.
“Mr. Van Wesson.” He began in a polished English that denoted his extensive education and years abroad. That he addressed the meeting in English as opposed to using a Swahili dialect or the demanded Afrikaans’ language was clearly a calculated move. A move designed to set the tone for the meeting.
O’knomo looked across the table to see the disgruntled looks of the Afrikaners ─ their nationalistic pride ruffled by this action. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was sure that the ANC delegates needed to assert themselves early in the meeting. Something he was glad to see his superior acknowledged with his action.
Mr. Gahima continued. “I thank you for taking this meeting with us. We are here as part of a special unit sanctioned by the Umkhonto we Sizwe’s ─ known as the MK ─intelligence organ. As the new government moves to integrate our military and intelligence branches into state agencies, we have certain agendas we want to make sure are not forgotten and get the necessary attention they deserve.”
The white men at the table were silent. No one seemed to know quite what to say next. Van Wesson finally uttered, “Well… umm… of course, we understand completely. The conflict is over, and now we have to begin the transition. My understanding is that your team is here primarily for the purpose of investigating war crimes, and we want to help. However, I feel this is a police matter, not an Intelligence one. The National Intelligence Service (NIS) is strictly intelligence gathering and has not conducted any clandestine missions abroad. But, of course, we are here to assist and offer full disclosure of our information and resources.”
“We are not here out of judgment, Mr. Van Wesson,” Mr. Gahima replied, raising his hand to calm the room. “We are working across the police and intelligence spectrum of the state’s agencies to search for operatives who carried out violent and heinous acts in their service to the Apartheid. Operatives who are now living in hiding. We will find them and bring them to justice.”
“What about those who carried out violent and heinous acts on behalf of the Black Nationalists,” growled the old racist? “Or are we going to just label them heroes and give them a medal for all the innocents they killed and maimed in the war.”
The room was about to explode.
Men from both sides rose and tempers flared. It was only the commanding presence of both Van Wesson and Gahima that cooled the situation. Everyone carefully lowered themselves back into their chairs. Gahima continued, “We are not denying our own culpability in this. That is not the mission of my team. Here, our focus is working with you, your resources and connections to other intelligence agencies around the world to focus on those in service to the Apartheid, particularly those who operated for units belonging to the Civil Cooperation Bureau. We know this was not a function of the National Intelligence Service (NIS). This should make it easier for you to assist us as opposed to the military, whose connection to the organization leaves them compromised.”
Gahima had managed to calm the mood in the room. The temperament on the white side was still reserved. The older whites, obvious throwbacks to the old days of the Department of National Security, the successor to the infamous Bureau of State Security, were distressed. They saw this request as a clear betrayal of those who had risked so much and fought to protect their country from the black and communist terrorists. The younger whites, the academics who had followed Niel Barnard only knew of the intelligence gathering missions and considered nothing else. For the Barnard men, the actions of groups like the CCB had often gone too far.
Van Wesson broke the silence. “Your team has been cleared to have full access to our resources in carrying out this assignment,” he said to Gahima. “You’ll be working within our building, and your teams will, of course, include people from my office. A joint venture as you would say.”
Gahima nodded. “This will be more than anything, an experiment. Two once rival organizations will now begin working as a cohesive force. We are here to track down war criminals. In doing so, we are working with the police, who are tainted with their own dubious history, and you, who will help us locate these criminals so they can face justice.”
“Justice?” another one of the older whites grunted. “Sounds more like persecution to me. You kaf…blacks won the bloody war and now you just want to get your revenge against us!”
“Why not? We’re certainly inclined to do so!” shouted the arrogant loudmouth sitting next to O’knomo. “You should be thanking us that we are not arresting you as criminals for your service to the evil of Apartheid!”
The room, again, nearly erupted into a riot of shouting accusations.
Again, Gahima and Van Wesson rose to calm the hostilities.
When the shouting had died down, Gahima spoke. “I have seen atrocities and other excesses carried out by both sides. But, at the moment, the issue is setting up a task force with NIS that will track down and bring to justice war criminals. Whatever else is discussed here today does not obviate this fact. Our team, in conjunction with people from your organization, has the mandate from both our leaders to carry out this mission.”
“And we will give full assistance to you in this endeavor, Mr. Gahima,” Van Wesson quickly spoke up, in time to stop another one of his subordinates from making another agitating comment. “I imagine you intend to get started in the next couple of weeks.”
“No,” Gahima frowned. “My people have a lot of eyes and pressure from the very top of ANC leadership for results. I intend to have my people begin today.”
Van Wesson took a deep, uneasy breath. He had not expected these former enemies to move so soon. He nodded his head. “Yes, of course. We can have office spaces prepared for your operation today.”
“We will also need to review records and files that have been requested prior to this meeting,” Gahima said, his voice quiet but stern.
Van Wesson nodded, again. The meeting ended with a promise that a section of the building would be prepared well enough for work to begin.
As everyone rose to adjourn, Mr. Gahima stopped O’knomo. “May I speak to you please, David?”
“Of course, sir,” O’knomo replied, somewhat puzzled.
Gahima pulled O’knomo’s arm directing him away from the rest of the crowd. “I know this was not an assignment you wanted; you are a field man, not a desk man. But, I requested you personally for this mission.”
“I am aware of this, sir.”
“I have a very specific mission I want to assign to you. I’m am asking you to please accept it.”
O’knomo could feel the old man’s hand tightening around his arm. “Of course, sir. If you ask, I will do it.”
The old man sighed. “There was, for the last five or six years a special unit of the CCB that operated predominately in the United Kingdom. It was under the command of one Devon Williams, a former member of the Reconnaissance Special Forces.”
“I recognize the name,” O’knomo grimaced. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.
“While the Vlakplaas police have become the primary target of our investigations regarding crimes carried out domestically, the CCB has become the focus of our interest in activities committed abroad. One of the more secretive operations was a unit that went by the code name: The Dark Chamber. It was a special, deep cover infiltration unit comprised of Rhodesian immigrants who had escaped Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe. From what little I’ve ascertained, this unit was responsible for the assassinations of several of our top people and supporters headquartered in London. They also carried out numerous acts of sabotage, terrorism, and other savage acts.”
O’knomo said nothing.
“This group operated in deep cover, away from most of the South African intelligence units operating in Europe. Williams is at the top of our list along with someone else. His chief operative: The Angel of Death.”
“The Angel of Death herself! You mean Sauwa Catcher?” The name suddenl
y caught O’knomo like a bolt of lightning. “He rubbed his hand over his mouth. His eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “I had only heard of her. She’s spoken about as if she is some terrible legend one shares around campfires.”
“Many have.” Gahima released his grip on the young man. “And, until recently, many thought she was merely a cover story ─ a figment, devised by the CCB to encompass the acts done by many operatives to look like the actions of a single person. When we were given access to their operational files, we discovered she actually does exist. Apparently, she is every bit as lethal as we have been led to believe. Which, brings me to you. I want you to head up the unit that focuses on the Dark Chamber. We’ve obtained volumes of records on the Dark Chamber’s activities from the archives of military intelligence. I’ve arranged for them to be sent to your new offices. We need to bring these people to justice.”
O’knomo looked up at the grey walls. He wished that there was something worth looking at to distract him. His first instinct was to say “no” and walk out. His ambition had been to put the whole war behind him and take up something else.
The old man stared up at him waiting for an answer.
O’knomo said slowly, “I don’t want this anymore. The Angel of Death is not just some thug who kills. If she does exist and is everything I’ve come to understand, she’s dangerous and not one to be taken lightly.” For the first time in several minutes, O’knomo looked down at the old man. “Anyone going after her stands a good chance of being at this job for a long time, maybe even years...”
“I’m well aware this is no small task to be done in a week,” Gahima interrupted sympathetically.
… “And should also expect to die in the process.”
Gahima turned away. He started walking. O’knomo followed. “I realize I’m asking a lot of you, David. What all you have been through is not lost on me. I know you were hoping to get away from this and start fresh in a new South Africa.” The old man faced O’knomo again. “But, as you have said, it’s dangerous and not easy. I need someone intuitive and adept at this kind of world. This is why I need you. If South Africa is to heal the wounds of her history, the perpetrators must be brought forth to answer. An investigation is the beginning ─ a hearing. They’re calling it the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It is intended to bring everything to bear. It will be a means to finally acknowledge what was done, so both sides can come to terms with their past.”
“Sounds good, so far.” O’knomo shrugged as he dug his hands into his pockets and started tilting forward. “It also sounds like something you can do very well without me or the Angel of Death. If we ever find her, my advice is, take her out or let the British have her.”
Gahima shook his head. “No, we can’t. The Angel of Death can testify to the true extent of the Apartheid’s evil in the world. She can testify to the unspeakable acts she committed for the state. I know so many who have had loved ones, colleagues and comrades die by her hand, and they need to hear her admit it ─ explain it. When she is finally caught, and we send her to prison, it will be the needed closing of a gruesome chapter of our history.”
O’knomo wasn’t sure he was hearing dramatic politicking or the ardent conviction of a man seeing a serious necessity. He considered the old man and tried to make a decision. It was, of course, a waste of time. There was no answer but yes.
5
The Land Rover made good time as it thumped across the puddle-ridden dirt road. Sauwa bounced in the passenger seat, her seatbelt the only protection from crashing into the roof of the cab. Rowan was cautious. Military patrols were more likely to frequent the main roads. A honeycomb of farm trails and dirt roads may have added to their time driving, but the backroads also increased their chances of avoiding any security units. A beaten gut and some motion sickness were a small price to pay.
She marveled at the picturesque countryside ─ lush, rolling green hills and jagged rock lines shielded against a roaring ocean. She was in the Northern Irish County of Down. Rowan and Shanna’s farm resided only a few miles outside the town of Strangford. From what she was able to gather, they were heading due south toward the town of Ardglass, traveling in a zigzag pattern that alternated between skirting the coastline and traveling through forgotten farm country. Rowan was clearly no stranger to transporting wanted fugitives. He navigated the windy roads and seemed to have good instincts for anticipating the security forces and even the IRA.
Between fits of nausea, Sauwa scrupulously reviewed a map of the area. The previous evening the lanky man had come to the house and given directions to a farmhouse somewhere north of Ardglass for her meeting. Security forces were in a high state of alert due to the recent peace talks. The UVF men had determined it would be better if the meeting was held somewhere far from any prying eyes. She didn’t like it but saw no way around the situation. The lanky fellow had given them his instructions, handed her a map and left, giving her no chance to ask questions.
Rowan provided nothing in the way of conversation. He was focused entirely on his driving. He had only looked at the map briefly before they set out. It was obviously someplace he had been to before.
Sauwa wasn’t sure how concerned she needed to be. The chosen location was logical, but everyone seemed familiar with the place except her; this did not calm her nerves. She studied Rowan’s facial expressions. He exuded all the mannerisms of a man intent on his mission, not a man anticipating anything dangerous.
Crossing briefly over the main road, Sauwa caught sight of a sign showing the distance and direction to Ardglass. Quickly looking down at the map, she estimated they were only a mile from the meeting site.
The Land Rover turned onto a dirt road and picked up speed.
“Stop,” she ordered.
Confused, he looked over at her. She shot back a commanding glare. He brought the vehicle to a halt.
“I’ll walk the rest of the way,” she said. She grabbed her bergen and slipped out of the passenger door onto the road. “It’s about a mile or so to the meeting spot, as near as I can tell.”
“Why are you doing this?” Rowan objected. His face was white; he looked bewildered. “I’m supposed to drive ya, ya daft female. Why ya gettin’ out?”
Sauwa slammed the door and threw her bergen over her back. Turning to the old man, she said. “Because I don’t trust the situation. I like to have some semblance of control over my destiny in these matters.” Fixing the straps over her shoulders, she adjusted her bergen. “Tell Simon, I’ll be along. Just not with you.”
Rowan’s mouth fell open. He attempted to speak amongst a litany of gasps. He couldn’t find the words. Sauwa moved off the road and up the hill. Behind her, she heard the old man say, “They’ll bloody well put a bullet in me fuckin head if I don’t bring ya.”
“Tell them, I would have put one in you if had,” she said over her shoulder.
She listened carefully for any noise that might resemble the sound of a gun about to be used. She fingered the pistol at her waistline in preparation. The only sound was the engine revving up, followed by the crunch of the ground as the Land Rover sped away. She continued up the hill.
It didn’t sit well with her; the thought that she was possibly putting someone who had shown such hospitality in a bad position with dangerous people. But, she didn’t trust Simon, and she was not inclined to walk into an ambush.
Mounting the top of the hill, Sauwa took a few minutes to get her bearings and allow her stomach to settle. In the green hills she felt, for a moment, like she was back home on the Transvaal. But homesickness did nothing to help her current nausea. She ate the candy bar she had tucked in her flannel ─ a slight relief ─ then trekked toward the meeting site.
Fifteen minutes later she reached the outskirts of the farm designated as the meeting spot. Using field skills she had acquired in her youth and the training at Fort Doppies, she crept closer, careful not to be seen. The farm sat at the base of a hill and contained a large, two-story house plus an assortment
of farmstead structures. Livestock and fields of organized crops indicated the farm was active.
Starting her recce from the top of the hill, she looked down on the area through a pair of binoculars. Within seconds she made out the dumpy figure of Simon, agitated and pacing back and forth waving his arms and shouting in the direction of the barn.
She could only assume his ravings were at Rowan. She caught sight of the old man’s Land Rover parked in a cluster of bushes next to another small, green truck. Simon turned and, with his hand held over his brow to block the sun, he looked up at the hill.
She had taken time to walk about the area, suspecting the dumpy man would have people lurking, but she saw none. She scanned the road in both directions for any additional vehicles parked in the distance. With the bare open fields, there was no place to hide a vehicle of any kind, and there was no hint of anyone else.
She watched for a few more minutes before deciding all looked good, and she could move in closer. She was thankful the terrain offered little for concealment. While it didn’t work exactly in her favor, it also limited the places Simon could have set up an ambush.
On her hands and knees, she crawled down the hill just far enough to be satisfied she wouldn’t skyline herself. Then throwing her bergen over her shoulders, Sauwa rounded the hill toward the farm. She still had another twenty minutes before the meeting time, but with her circumstances somewhat desperate, she had no wish to test her current benefactor any more than necessary. Yet, she wasn’t about to simply risk herself.
She kept a good pace, moving between a fast run and light jog on soft, moist ground with the high grass continually grabbing at her ankles. Thankfully, the hill was small, and she was able to get around it relatively quickly. Close to the farm, she slowed until she reached a small shed with a tin roof and peeling wood. Chickens clucked inside. She peeked around the corner to see Simon still parading back and forth glowering at his watch, exasperated. She withdrew back behind the coop, ever aware of a possible ambush, and scanning the area for logical hiding places. The house and the main barn were the only possibilities.