by J E Higgins
The sounds of violence grew more intense with each passing moment. Sauwa could feel Rena shivering with fear. The little girl’s tears had become heavy enough that they began to soak Sauwa’s T-shirt. Sauwa hugged her sister and whispered into her ear, telling her it wasn’t as bad as it sounded and that her brothers were just being overly cautious. It did little to help. Rena’s sobs only deepened.
The attacking men howled with excitement, heckling and raging louder with each passing minute, loud enough to drown out the shrieks of their victims and the roar of the blazing fires.
The faces of her brothers were white with nervous anticipation, their breaths heavy. Colin was looking around the room at his family. He was now the man of the house; he was now the one in charge. He readied his rifle, as did the twins.
Sauwa awoke in darkness. It took her seconds for her eyes to adjust and realize she was in a room lying in bed in a cold sweat. Her nightshirt was completely soaked with perspiration. She sat up, gathering her faculties.
Another nightmare. One of the many horrible memories from her childhood in Rhodesia. She only had them now and then. But, when they did occur, they were vivid and powerful. Her work with the Civil Cooperations Bureau ─CCB ─ had added to these evening tales that occasionally plagued her.
Through the cracks in the shades, she could tell that the sun had come up. Slipping out of bed, she fumbled about the floor feeling for her bergen. Clutching it, she stood up and carefully navigated her way to the door.
The farmhouse was a historical model that easily dated back to the eighteenth century. Aside from modern plumbing and electrical wiring upgrades, there was little modernization.
Making her way down the dreary, darkened hallway, she found herself in the kitchen. There was no way to know who was likely to frequent the place, so she had opted to keep all the shades drawn, but that made visibility poor. With the help of a flashlight she had been able to find during her recce (South African word for recon) of the house, she also found a small alarm clock on the counter ─ it read eight o’clock.
As Simon had explained, the refrigerator and cupboards were well stocked. From the looks of things, the food had all been purchased recently. Apparently, the UVF wanted to make sure she had provisions when being left out in the middle of nowhere.
Finding a pan and some plates, she collected some eggs from the fridge and set about making breakfast. She had eaten some fruit and cold cereal last night. The possibility of a military night patrol had made it too risky to use lights or cook some food. There was a fifty percent chance that any soldiers in the area would know the family who lived in the house. Her accent was not indigenous to the area, so even a chance encounter of a patrol knocking on the door would make any halfway intelligent officer suspicious and start asking questions. Questions she would have a hard time answering.
She had wrestled with the idea of using the house or staying in a darkened spot in the corner of the barn. If a security patrol had dropped by, there were no real means to see out the back or any good means of escape. The house backed up against a hill and offered no cover. However, she could more easily slip out of an opening she spotted in the far corner of the barn. It led to the fields outside and the wild grass, but she would be caught by any flashlights or someone scanning the area using night vision optics. She figured the best answer was to stay in the room offered on the bottom floor, keeping the curtains drawn and not answer, if someone called at the house. Besides, a young girl, alone at the house, sleeping through a night visit or being hysterical at the thought of someone prowling around, would cause less suspicion than a homeless wanderer camped suspiciously in a barn.
Lifting the curtain an inch, she peered through the window to scan outside. The farm was as deserted as it had been the day before. Since ASU’s and other paramilitaries tended to operate mostly at night, the threat of a security patrol was greatest then. So early in the morning, it was unlikely a patrol would be so far out.
A few eggs, some oat cereal and a bowl of fruit made for a most delicious meal. A glass of orange juice topped her breakfast off nicely.
After breakfast, she enjoyed a warm shower in the downstairs bathroom. The warm water felt good after waking up in a pool of cold sweat. She wiped down the tub, spent another few minutes cleaning the kitchen and the dishes used, collecting her things, and packed a few days’ provisions.
Before she left, she discarded the Makarov in the water trough. She didn’t like going without protection but, if caught, a gun was too difficult to explain. She had taken a few hundred pounds from the envelope and stuffed it into her wallet. The rest she tucked into some plastic bags stuffed them into jars of coffee. If she looked innocent enough, soldiers and cops would not be so inclined to conduct a thorough search through her bags.
Confident she was as ready as could be, she strapped on her bergen and started off.
The morning was crisp despite a cloudless day. With the house all locked up, she took one last look around before making her way back toward the main road. As a precaution, she rounded the hill and trekked back the way she had come through the open fields. This lessened the chance of running into patrols. With only one fake identity from London, she didn’t want to run any more risk than necessary. In a flannel coat, jeans, military boots and her bergen on her shoulder, she could easily be a bohemian enjoying an outing in the countryside.
Sauwa was tired when she finally made it to the outskirts of Ardglass, a quaint little town on the sea, slightly more than a shire, boasting a population of just under two thousand people. Tramping up the road, she acted like a wanderer, drifting and glancing aimlessly around. She gazed at the scenery and a collection of ancient looking houses. This was only partially an act. One thing she loved about the United Kingdom was the wash of history one could take in. Coming from such a young country as South Africa, it was a wonder to see houses that bore witness to so much throughout the ages. The grey stone houses that littered the landscape were truly breathtaking. In the distance, she could see the dull, greyish water of the Irish Sea.
She walked through the village and took careful note of the attitude of the locals. If they seemed mindful of strangers, she wanted to cut her time here short. If not, she intended to stay a moment and get her bearings. Casually looking about, she responded to several quick waves and hellos. They weren’t a lynch mob of fear-ridden villagers, yet they definitely noticed a new face in town. Better to keep moving then.
She made her way to the train station, where she acquired a map.
In a discrete corner in the waiting area, after a quick map recce, she determined that her best course of action was to take a trip to the much larger town of Newry. The population there was nearly thirty thousand and would have a bigger transient population where she could avoid notice. It also bordered County Armagh, known for farmland and a vast network of informal farm roads and trails that crossed into the Republic. The IRA conducted all sorts of guerrilla operations there because of the difficulty security forces had in controlling access points that crisscrossed the border.
With all the attention Sauwa had, any documented crossing ─ where a picture was sure to be taken of her and a record made of any identity she might be using ─ was out of the question.
Dropping a few pounds at the ticket office, she bought a seat on the next train to Newry. An old man, who looked as if he had been working in that office since the nineteenth century, lazily took her money and punched her out a ticket. She had taken a moment to scan the location for any security systems. Fortunately, the only cameras that seemed to exist were at the ticket office. They were cheap, stationary things of poor quality. Lifting her coat lapels up around her face and pulling her knit cap lower over her ears, she was able to limit what the cameras would be able to capture of her face. A quick comment about the cold weather was more than enough to explain the bundled-up appearance to the old man. An hour later she was on the train.
Newry was an entirely different place. It was a thriving t
own of thousands with a collection of historic buildings dating back to at least the eighteenth century which ensured heavy tourist traffic from all over. It was easy to blend in as just another face looking to see the sights.
Sauwa grabbed lunch at a crowded local tavern and scoped out a group of college kids gathered around a table. They were well into their libations, and the assorted males and females were ensconced in the pursuit of finding a mate for the evening. One of the young ladies had an appearance similar to Sauwa’s. She also had a large handbag that remained wide open.
Sauwa bided her time watching the room carefully, sipping her water and finished the last remnants of her meal. Her look-alike was well into her drink. So was the young man who had captured her look-alike’s attention. Sauwa paid her check, casually rose with a beer in her hand and moved to stand at a high table near the door. The young lovers were now nestled in each other’s necks, their hands exploring body parts. Soon the couple left their seats and staggered out the door. As they passed, Sauwa caught sight of the girl’s wallet.
The couple brushed past her. In one quick movement, she grabbed the wallet. Taking a gulp of her drink, Sauwa casually slipped out the door and walked toward the train station. She assumed it would be at least morning before her twin realized she had been robbed. By then, Sauwa would be in the Republic, if all went well.
David O’knomo’s new office wasn’t very big. It was a sizeable room portioned off with bland cubical partitions that only added to the dismal setting and an even more dismal mood. To make matters worse, the team assigned to him seemed dysfunctional from the start.
He had been given exactly three people: one was the old racist who had sat across from him in the introductory board meeting. The jowly, grizzled figure, going by the name of Coors Ravenhoof, an MK fighter, who was a throw-back to the days of the Department of National Security (DONS). O’knomo wasn’t keen on having such a person working so close to his operation. However, Mr. Gahima had made it clear that this mission was as much about amalgamation as it was about finding war criminals. Besides, Gahima had it on good authority that despite Ravenhoof’s obvious racial views, he had not approved the heavy-handed tactics used by his colleagues during the old days. He also had garnered a reputation as a first-rate detective when he was with the South African Police force and had continued proving his abilities as a man who got results working the streets. O’knomo had his concerns, but he also had a big job ahead of him. A job with a lot of powerful people expecting results.
The next member of his team was another MK fighter, Jamie Nawati. Like O’knomo, Nawati had also traipsed across the various countries of the sub-African continent spending much of his youth in combat fatigues. He had been trained in Angola by Cuban Special Forces to be part of a deep infiltration unit. He had later attended advanced assassination training hosted by the North Korean Reconnaissance General Bureau. Though they had not had a chance to discuss histories, it was understood Nawati had carried out numerous acts of terrorism and assassinations. The young man was on the team to provide a more personal understanding of their quarry. A small but well-portioned man with a chiseled frame, Nawati looked the part of a combat soldier and carried himself with a pleasant, quiet demeanor. O’knomo took an instant liking to the man.
The last of the team, another Afrikaner, Dr. Eugene Walderhyn, was a professor of political science. He had obtained his doctorate at the age of twenty-eight. He had been one of the bright, young academics who followed Niel Barnard into the newly formed National Intelligence Service. Not a field man or a covert operative by any stretch, Walderhyn was part of the intelligence-oriented world that focused on collection and analysis. Clean shaven, with a thick crop of perfectly groomed black hair and manicured features, he wore his large glasses and pressed light blue suit as if he were about to attend a university lecture. He hadn’t said much but eyed the ANC MK fighters with suspicion.
Having shown up first, several hours ahead of everyone, O’knomo had had a chance to peruse the files that had been brought to the office in a small, secure steel box. He had spent the early hours reading through the files. If he was to lead this band of merry men, he would need to start off as the expert. The files that pertained to the activities of the CCB unit that had operated in the United Kingdom ─ the unit known as the Black Chamber. A note taped to the top of the box and written in Swahili by Gahima let him know that the files marked with red tape referred specifically to the infamous Angel of Death.
O’knomo inhaled.
The first file felt strangely like a sacred archive of some mystic religion. The Angel of Death was a legend ─an exaggeration he was sure ─ rumored to be one of South Africa’s more lethal assassins. When he finally brought himself to open the thick manila folder that sat uneasily on his lap, emotion overwhelmed him. In that moment, he was able to attach an actual life to a long-heard ghost story. The mythical creature actually existed ─ the Angel of Death was real.
He gazed at a five by five inch black and white photograph of a woman, little more than a girl. Her long, raven black hair was tied neatly behind her head. Slightly almond shaped, dark black eyes ─ deadpan, hollow eyes ─ stared back at him. She was the vision of a ghostly being. It was hard for him to put a face to the monster responsible for the deaths of so many. Behind the picture was her dossier. He sat back in his chair and stared at the first page. Stunned he finally had a name to go with the ghost: Sauwa Catcher.
O’knomo had finished most of the document when the first of his team arrived. Walderhyn, one of the two Afrikaner, was immaculately groomed with a conservative grey suit pressed to military standards. He gave a slight bow to his new superior before taking a seat. Within minutes the rest of the team followed; Ravenhoof sauntering in behind Nawati. Nawati maintained a professional military bearing. It was obvious he wanted to be recognized as a professional soldier above anything else.
The team was now assembled. O’knomo took a moment to study their faces. Walderhyn and Ravenhoof wore disgruntled expressions. Clearly, they had been assigned to this new team under duress. The consummate academic, Walderhyn sat with his legs crossed, arms folded and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Ravenhoof leaned back and began scratching his chin. Nawati, by now, had sunk into his chair resting his arms comfortably.
“What have you all been told about this assignment?” O’knomo opened as he rose to his feet and began pacing slightly. The room was dead quiet.
“I was told this was some kind of fugitive unit,” Nawati finally spoke up. “I wasn’t told much.”
“Me neither,” chimed Ravenhoof. “Only that I’m to help you persecute the losing side.”
O’knomo watched as Nawati’s eyes glared angrily at the heavyset Afrikaner. For a moment, the fear of a brawl breaking out seemed real. Ravenhoof remained smug and unapologetic. He had made his views clear. Nawati kept silent, as did Walderhyn, for which O’knomo was thankful. A few more moments of silence confirmed that no one had been told anything. O’knomo would have to start from scratch.
“Yes, it is true we are part of a new joint effort between the African National Congress and South African intelligence,” O’knomo said as he looked down at the men. “And, yes, it is also true we have been established with the mandate to track down those who are now fugitives from the law for crimes committed during the silent war.” He paused. “I realize this is a tense issue for us all. I understand we have strong feelings on both sides about what that means. But there are those who need to be held accountable.”
“As you say,” the polished, elegant voice of Dr. Eugene Walderhyn cut in. “You mean those held accountable by the standards of your organization. Isn’t that right?”
O’knomo held steady for few seconds. This moment was crucial in defining the path of his team from this point forward. “No, that is not right. We are using the concepts of decency. I’m not here to judge. I have no illusions about my own side. I have a belief that there are those on both sides that need to be held to ac
count for their actions, and we are here to do just that. You can think what you like about this entire program. In the end, it does not change the fact that we are chasing those who committed serious, violent acts, and we need to bring them to justice. I realize for you whites, this may seem like persecution. But, I would say this. There are those on my side who carried out equally heinous acts. Those you yourselves want to see held accountable. If you are to have any right to demand justice of your own, you must be willing to make the first move.”
O’knomo took a breath. “You may not believe me, but what we do here is so our country can heal. Healing begins when all sides being held to account, and we acknowledge what we all did. Both sides need to be held accountable. Otherwise, revenge groups and vigilantes seeking their own brand of retribution.”
The Afrikaners were still suspicious but seemed to grasp what their new boss was saying. Nawati maintained his composure, studying the man before him, trying to determine if he was working for an idealist or a political hack.
Under the circumstances, O’knomo was happy with the results. He did not expect to have his speech appeal to their sense of patriotism and duty. However, if they were not walking out the door, then at least it was a start. The men sat trying to size each other up.
Walderhyn looked around the bare room and asked, “So, who are we going to be pursuing?”
“This is our fugitive,” O’knomo pulled the black and white photo from the file he had been reading along with a small tack and pinned it up on the poster board. The group studied it for a moment. The confused look on their faces said enough.
O’knomo stood next to the photo. “We are a very special unit going after a specific target. Her name is Sauwa Catcher ─ the Angel of Death herself.”