by J E Higgins
From what Talamadge could make of the report, the archivist found nothing pertaining to any intelligence unit identified by the name Dark Chamber. Nor did they find any reference to a unit that was working independently from the base CCB intelligence apparatus. The idea that this team was comprised exclusively of African whites, specifically of British lineage, seemed strange in and of itself. This whole unit seemed more like a ghost story.
Even pouring through the files pertaining to the South African intelligence czar, Craig Williams, proved fruitless. Dark Chamber was a mystery organization that came to light only after South Africa intelligence opened its files. British agencies were now scrambling to narrow the intelligence gap.
Talamadge finally caught a break when the South African embassy presented him with a contact ─ a man by the name of David O’knomo of the South African Intelligence Service (NIS) ─ whose team was also pursuing individuals belonging to the Dark Chamber. O’knomo’s top priority: the fugitive at-large, Sauwa Catcher ─ a person reported to be responsible for the killing of a London barrister, Lynard Remslyn.
Politically liberal, Remslyn acted as legal advisor to certain Africa National Congress (ANC) officials. A bright star in Britain’s far-left circles, Remslyn had also been the ANC’s principal contact for various left-wing groups sympathetic to the Black Nationalist cause.
Perhaps Talamadge had found the source he needed. O’knomo had provided Talamadge with details that implied there was a considerable amount of information the South Africans had yet to reveal about the shadowy forces of the Apartheid’s intelligence network.
While O’knomo and his team continued to work out of Pretoria, O’knomo had arranged for one of his people to travel to Britain and help search for this Catcher woman. Apparently, this woman was much more significant than had been originally understood. The MI-5 veteran was inclined to accept working with the South Africans, given that they offered to provide information he desperately needed. He was told that an operative, going by the name of Coors Ravenhoof, was due in London the next day to compare notes.
When Jeffery Talamadge met with Coors Ravenhoof, he wasn’t sure what to make of the man. The large, middle-aged South African looked more like an old-school veteran policeman than an educated intelligence officer. Further, he was a white Afrikaner and seemed marginally suspicious.
Talamadge had expected a former ANC type black man now working in government service, or a younger man who had little real connection to the old regime. But, meeting in a secure room offered at Scotland Yard headquarters under lights designed to assist in interrogations, Talamadge shook hands with a man who could have performed violent activities in the service of the Apartheid for decades.
Ravenhoof was silent as he let the young, sandy-haired fellow sitting across the room continue to look him up and down. He understood the natural suspicions held by those who worked in the clandestine world. He would have to let a measure of trust evolve before he could expect much else. What he was also prepared for was the proverbial wall of silence, in which one agency’s idea of cooperation was milking another for all viable information while revealing none themselves. It was a game the old cop had dealt with many times in the past and expected no different now.
“The Dark Chamber,” Talamadge opened, breaking the icy silence. “Why don’t you tell me who they are? What do you know?”
Ravenhoof remained stoic, taking in the room. He was in no mood to be interrogated. “Well, I’m a little interested in who they might have had contact with working up here.”
The older man’s evasiveness left Talamadge disgruntled. He wanted a thorough debriefing, not a tit for tat information exchange. But this Ravenhoof was not going to be so obliging. “I was under the impression you were here to be forthcoming about your country’s intelligence activities in Great Britain. That starts with answering my questions.”
“No,” replied the Afrikaner. “It starts when we share information to achieve both our goals. That requires we work with each other. If that’s not your intention, then mine is to go look up the cops and see if they’ll be less difficult.”
“My dear sir, they wouldn’t have your answers,” Talamadge glared. “We handle counter-intelligence, not them.”
Ravenhoof chuckled. “Well, that’s what I’d expect a spy to say. But, cops often have a closer ear to the streets than most might be inclined to admit. They also seem to care more about catching criminals than playing politics and posturing.”
“One who denigrates his own profession, I see.”
Ravenhoof rose from his chair. “I was a cop long before I was ever one of you. Life was better then. So, I’ll stick with the people I like more.” He started to leave.
“Wait!” Talamadge snapped. “Please sit.” He motioned to the now empty seat.
Ravenhoof studied the younger man for a moment. Deciding he had made his point, he sank back into his chair. “I know we live in a world, you and I, where trust is a rare and precious commodity. But we both want the same thing ─ to bring criminals to justice.”
“Very well,” Talamadge sighed reluctantly. “I’m authorized to exchange certain information.”
“Then, okay, as long as we’re exchanging. If it helps me as much as you, I can be open about what we have,” Ravenhoof agreed. “I can explain the Dark Chamber in a general context. Our agency will supply more detailed files by diplomatic pouch to our embassy in the next few days. But, what my country chooses to reveal is at my discretion.”
Talamadge nodded. “For now, that will suffice. If you could begin with what you can discuss, I will try to help fill in the blanks.”
Ravenhoof folded his hands under his chin and took a deep breath. “The Dark Chamber was a unit created by the Civil Cooperation Bureau to operate as an independent element. A group that took their orders directly from Pretoria. The Chamber was designed as a means of waging clandestine war against anti-Apartheid forces operating in Great Britain. The mission was to disrupt any attempts to forge strong relations with your political left. This meant targeting British citizens up to and including assassinations and other forms of terrorism.”
The MI-5 archivist shifted, and Ravenhoof gauged his reaction. Black-Ops groups were not unusual, but the full-blown campaign he was suggesting would give any counter intelligence man indigestion. Ravenhoof cleared his throat. “The unit was drawn up of whites who possessed British lineage. We recruited largely from the pool of Rhodesians streaming across the border. Many already had a significant background from working in the security services of Rhodesia. Some were kids, young adults who possessed the necessary traits for good covert spy work. We later cultivated them to help infiltrate white radical groups operating on the English-speaking campuses.”
Talamadge sat quietly. It wasn’t a ghost story. He was intrigued. It was simply extraordinary.
Ravenhoof stopped for a moment, giving Talamadge a chance to speak. The MI-5 officer motioned to him continue. Not wanting to be tapped for too much, Ravenhoof studied the young man and decided he needed to divulge further information before demanding reciprocation. “Eventually, as the more established nationalist movements expanded their operations into Europe, it became necessary to follow suit. As you know, many of the activities my government carried out in the late seventies and eighties were not very well managed or concealed with many tracing right back to the South African embassy.
The CCB leadership decided to establish a deep cover penetration unit, the Dark Chamber. Run by the military, it was cut off almost entirely from the South African intelligence community. It was not even run through any offices in Pretoria but, instead, through a secret headquarters established just outside of the Fort Doppies military base in South West Africa. All funding was entirely off the books. Instead of receiving logistical and financial support through the embassy, Dark Chamber was supported through a network of black market types in Africa who were connected to Dark Chamber through the South African Police.”
“This is
why nothing is known of them.” Talamadge shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Precisely,” Ravenhoof agreed. “They infiltrated into the country illegally, were given names and identities of British citizens and blended into deep cover. From there they engaged high priority targets in the ANC and PAC, as well a few organizations of lesser influence. They also infiltrated leftist political groups here in Britain to collect intelligence on their relations with the Black Nationalist organizations and the potential impact this could have on your country’s greater political climate. They eventually expanded this mission to active disruption of any political alliances that could prove damaging over time.”
“It didn’t stop there, did it?” The MI-5 officer was now leaning forward in his chair, listening intensely.
Ravenhoof resumed. “In the end, they were targeting British citizens deemed potential threats. Dark Chamber already conducted sabotage assassinations in addition to other activities judged necessary by their team leader, one Devon Williams.”
Talamadge dutifully took dictation as Ravenhoof continued to enlighten him to the phenomenon of Dark Chamber. He was finally getting something tangible about this elusive operation. When Ravenhoof paused, Talamadge set down his pen. “This brings us to your needs. The question of Sauwa Catcher. She is so important that you have a unit designated entirely to bringing her in?” The MI-5 operative was incredulous.
Ravenhoof took a deep breath, which he then exhaled in a slow, deep sigh. “We are tasked with bringing down all the members of Dark Chamber. However, Ms. Catcher presents the highest priority right now. In the circles of South African intelligence and the military wings of the Black Nationalist organizations, she is quite infamous. Her informal title, dubbed by both sides is the Angel of Death for the degree of violence she has carried out.”
“Including here? On British soil?” Talamadge returned to jotting notes with some excitement.
“Your government has only received a little information as to her activities here,” Ravenhoof replied adamantly. “Your police have only been apprised of one killing she committed in your country. She is responsible for so many more.”
“I trust the ‘more’ will be outlined in the documents you plan to show me when they arrive at your embassy.” Talamadge leaned back in his chair and eyed his counterpart.
The South African stared back. “The documents I might show you if you are as free with your information.”
Talamadge reached for a metal case placed next to him and turned the combination. Opening the case, he produced a manila folder. He perused the contents briefly, then returned his attention to Ravenhoof. “The South African intelligence network did rely on certain right-wing political groups for various forms of support. Many of them were far right Skinhead types offering muscle for basic rough stuff. Other groups were comprised of prominent citizens who assisted politically. These groups lobbied for the Apartheid cause and kept abreast of the talk within the circles of Parliament and more influential political parties. Nothing dangerous and certainly not illegal, per se. Ultimately, very few have the means to run a complex network capable of spiriting highly sought fugitives out of the country. That’s assuming Dark Chamber operatives have indeed left Britain, or they’ve had dealings with of these groups.”
Ravenhoof folded his arms and moistened his lips. “They’re gone. I am sure of that. Before the Apartheid fell, word passed to our operatives abroad warning them of what was about to happen. Those who could return home were recalled. Superiors informed those most likely to face criminal charges from intelligence leaks that they would be subject to war crimes if they returned to South Africa. The Dark Chamber leadership knew both countries would pursue charges against their people and instructed them to go into hiding.”
“What makes you think they would work through any of these groups? Or that they had any connection with them whatsoever?”
“We gave them no direct support from their government. They had to rely on the underworld and domestic political movements sympathetic to their cause. They would have chosen carefully who they reached out to though. That would mean a very short list of groups that could deliver the support they needed. Criminal groups are less trustworthy than well-organized political groups.”
Talamadge tapped his fingers. “In that case, it narrows the field considerably. For a long time, South African intelligence enjoyed a cozy relationship with Loyalist paramilitaries from Northern Ireland. These groups helped with a great deal of logistics and operational support for some of their operations. If your Ms. Catcher was going to reach out to anyone, the Ulster Defense Association or the Ulster Volunteer Force would be the most likely suspects. They have the resources to protect your fugitive and move her out of Britain undetected.”
The MI-5 operative handed the folder to the South African, confident that he had gained his needed information.
11
Sauwa’s first plan was to stage Donovan’s killing to look like a suicide, but on closer analysis, the idea was unfeasible. For the good of both herself and her employers, the police, hunting for vengeance, would need someone else to hold accountable.
It took several days of patient observation for Sauwa to determine Donovan was most vulnerable outside the Sherrfield Café. If she could walk up in the crowd carrying a sharp object, she could stab deep into a lethal area and coolly walk away. The trick was making sure the kill was guaranteed.
She decided the best method was a breakable knife. Not wanting to go through Banker, she combed the warehouse district for materials to build a variety of trial weapons. Her latex gloves fit her hands snugly so she could work with precision. With the meticulous eye of a craftsman, she worked at the small desk in her room, manipulating pieces of glass and hard plastic to determine which weapon would work best.
She sifted through thrift stores to acquire necessary materials, props and clothing to carry out her plan. She collected a variety of bits and pieces in different stores to prevent someone from remembering her. From a flea market, she scavenged a large canvas bag.
It took a few days of experimentation before Sauwa settled on a seven-inch piece of glass ─ a roughly triangular shape that had been part of an office window. A centimeter thick, sharp and jagged on both sides, it was perfect for stabbing someone, penetrating the outer skin and tearing deep into the soft tissue and organs. Just as important was her ability to break it off from the handle, so the blade couldn’t be retrieved or the wound plugged to prevent bleeding out. She would need a grip sturdy enough to allow her to perform the job, but weak enough at the base to cleanly separate, permitting her to escape unnoticed. A thick, semi-cubicle, plastic rectangle from part of a small table served that function.
After having honed both objects to specifications, she attached the plastic cube to the glass shard with airplane glue. It was a cheap, simplistic contraption, but one that would serve well for her purposes. She had learned in her training that simplicity often worked best in a complex operation. Her humble knife was unpredictable, untraceable and a means of assassination resembling methods used in the underworld giving the police a focus for their anger.
The glue dried in an hour, then she was ready to practice. Banker had supplied her with a collection of sandbags partially filled with whole chickens from a butcher shop. The nightclub owner had been confused by her request; however, he knew better than to ask needless questions.
Sauwa stuffed the chickens into the bags until they were deeply submerged in the thick sand. She tied them off tightly, lined them up on a table and leaned them against the wall. The whole exercise would test the weapon’s ability to stab through clothes, flesh, and finally soft tissue. Gripping the makeshift knife firmly, she took a deep breath and drew it back from her hip. With a quick thrust, she plunged the knife fiercely into the bag. It tore through the thick burlap into the sand and boney chicken meat.
It seemed her weapon was a success until three inches in, a jagged tooth along the blade caught on a piece of
burlap causing the handle to break off prematurely. If her target wore a durable shirt, the blade would have been stopped too early to guarantee a lethal strike. The glass needed to penetrate deep and leave rescuers no way to extract it.
Returning to her work desk she set about redesigning her weapon. She repeated the routine throughout the day. Each time she tested the knife, she examined it for mistakes and made necessary changes to the weapon or the strike pattern. When a bag had been used up, she cut open the top and discarded the contents into the sea water outside her window ─ the fish and currents did the rest. It was near nightfall when she completed her rehearsals. After five successful stabs in a row, she doused the blade in a thick coat of oleander residue to provide a lethal toxin and wrapped the weapon in sandwich wrap.
She ended the evening by dropping the remaining sandbags into the water, then enjoyed a light dinner and a shower. Her bed, a lumpy, industrial mattress used in military barracks, seemed like heaven as she drifted off to sleep. Both her body and mind had been hard at work the past few days not just planning for the assassination but mulling over the inevitable, unpredictable future that awaited her. When the job was completed, and she was packed onto whatever means of transport Banker would arrange for her, she would be on her own again. The UVF and Banker would wash their hands of her, and she would have to find a way to fend for herself.
Sauwa rose the next morning before the sun had come up. No alarm clock was necessary. Her natural instincts seemed to take over. Rising from bed, she exercised, showered and ate. She packed up all her belongings and stashed them in a hard to find location but convenient for retrieval in the event she had to make a fast getaway.