by J E Higgins
“I understand sir,” the young constable said humbly as he exited the vehicle and made for the pub.
“And, don’t stop for a drink,” the sergeant shouted to his fleeing subordinate. “You’re not paid for that either!”
Inside, the pub was filled with an assorted collection of patrons; most of whom were divided into groups around the tables in the establishment. The few drinking alone were all deep into their tall mugs and concentrating on nothing else. Even a uniformed policeman went unnoticed amongst such an obliviously despondent lot.
Making his way toward the bathrooms in the back corner, Willock walked calmly not wanting to attract attention. He got to the back and quickly turned into the dingy washroom. It smelled of a horrid mixture of stale urine and marijuana. The washroom offered three stalls and three urinals. As instructed, the constable strolled over to a urinal and began looking to relieve himself. Within seconds, the door behind him was opened by a sandy-haired young man. The young man showed not the slightest interest in the constable as he nonchalantly went about exploring the stalls.
After checking each stall, he walked up to the sink and began running the water. Without facing the constable, he began to speak. “A football fan, are you?” he asked unassumingly.
Willock’s eyes sprang open as he stammered trying to get the words out. “Only if the team is Chelsea.” It was the response he had been instructed to give.
The sandy-haired man turned to face the door. “What do you know so far?” The conversation became serious quickly.
Again, struggling to find the words, the constable spat, “They’re investigating another set of linked murders. As it was explained to me, two more detectives with Intelligence were killed at what looks to be the home of a document forger.”
“Keep going,” the sandy-haired man commanded.
“Well, they’re not looking at Loyalist paras for this. The killings seem to have been done by a freelancer ─ a South African.”
“South African?” the sandy-haired man interrupted.
“Yes, some former spy, or rather,” the constable spat, again, “one of their operatives working in England as part of a professional death squad. Now that the Apartheid has lost the war, she’s one of the folks that’s found herself on the run. She’s here because she took a contract to do a job.”
“Marston Donovan?” the sandy-haired man interrupted, again.
“That’s him,” the constable replied.
“What does the Garda know about this South African? Who is he?” the sandy-haired man demanded.
“She,” Willock replied.
“A woman?” sandy-hair was shocked.
“Yes,” the constable began to get nervous, “she goes by the name Sauwa Catcher.”
“A female killer took out a seasoned intelligence officer with the Garda, along with an additional team of five IRA hitmen, and now another two cops?” sandy-hair wasn’t sure if he was believing what he had just heard. His reaction to the information unnerved the young constable.
“By herself from what we know so far,” Willock stammered, as he reached under his patrol coat and presented a wrinkled, large yellow envelope. “This is the picture given to us by the British. MI-5 is looking for this girl for all the stuff she did back in England. She’s a high priority for them. There’s also a representative from South Africa, some intelligence guy. Her own people are looking for her.”
“Where is she now, do they think?” sandy-hair kept his gaze on the door.
“She’s disappeared,” Willock replied.
The sandy-haired man ruminated for a moment before speaking. “Tell your handler, the minute the Garda has anything about her whereabouts to contact us at once. This woman is a high priority for the movement.” The conversation ended with the sandy-haired man walking out of the washroom leaving the constable alone holding himself.
Ewen Callaway exited the washroom and casually made his way to a table in the far corner. The only occupant was a woman his age and bearing a striking resemblance to him. Ellen Callaway, Ewen’s twin sister, looked stunning with her long hair running straight down her back and her trim athletic frame. The twins took their role as soldiers very seriously and, in addition to a strong adherence to developing their military training, they also stayed in peak physical condition.
Sliding into the seat next to her, Ewen placed the envelope he received from the constable on the table before her. They both watched as Willock, the nervous looking constable, made a hasty exit. His eyes forward. He did not display the slightest recognition of the man he had just met.
“I hope you didn’t make him shit his nappies?” Ellen asked jokingly.
“Probably did,” her brother replied with exasperation. “The piss ant certainly acted like he was about to.”
“Well, what matters was the information worth our time?” Ellen asked leaning up to her brother.
“Good enough,” Ewen looked over his shoulder to view his sister. “We have a name, Sauwa Catcher.”
“One person?” Her voice denoted a twinge of shock.
“And, a woman, no less,” he replied in a surprised tone as he tapped the envelope on the table.
His sister patted him affectionately on the shoulder. “My dear brother, it might surprise you to know women do more than cook, clean and get ridden by a man in bed.” She picked up the envelope and peeled away the seal. Reaching inside she pulled out a slightly bent photograph of a ghostly looking woman who she considered to be, at best, in her twenties. “She looks like someone who’d work for the secret police.”
Snatching the picture from her, Ewen glance at it. “Aye, this is the one the police are looking for from what our friend in there said. He also said she recently killed two more cops.”
“Oh shit,” Ellen said with a smirk. “She’s certainly been busy the last couple of days.”
Ewen dropped the picture and began tapping it. “Three detectives ─ the Garda is going all out to catch this one.”
“Makes me think it’s perhaps a mistake for us to be getting mixed up in this any further.” Ellen leaned back in her chair and looked at her brother. He was still tapping the photo and contemplating something. “You know I’m right.”
He nodded. “I know you are. This, however, is well above our pay grade, as they say in the army. It’s not our call to make. We need to talk to the boss.”
Ellen clicked her teeth and asked, “Do the cops even have an idea where she might be?”
“Not a fucking clue,” Ewen gnashed his teeth with irritation.
The twins rose from their chairs and slowly made for the door. None of the patrons showed the slightest interest in them as they normally mingled among their own pocket of friends and tended to their drinks.
25
He could feel his heart racing, though he couldn’t tell if it was being driven by fear or anger. He felt both as he sat tied to the jagged stone wall with an assorted mixture of chains and wiring that cut into his body. David O’knomo could hear the screams echoing loudly throughout the different parts of the dungeon-like facility. He hated hearing them; they never seemed to stop. Outside he could hear the footsteps walking up and down the pathway and the creaking of doors as they entered the various stalls where others were being kept. All he could do was wait helplessly for his time.
The door finally creaked open very slowly. It was a practiced action that the interrogators liked to use to add to the agony of anticipation by the prisoner. O’knomo watched as two men, both white, entered the stall. “Well, you going to talk to us today, kafir. Or are we going to have to use persuasion?” asked a tall, wiry-looking man with a pencil mustache. He smiled smugly as he began to unravel a thick plastic bag.
O’knomo said nothing in reply as he started to breathe harder anticipating the inevitable. The other white man ─ a bit shorter and looking much younger than the first ─ began to unravel a set of cords that sported two hooks on the end. “No, this one’s going to be like the others today. Seems none
of them want to do the smart thing and talk to us.”
“A shame really,” the taller one said. “I was hoping for at least one that didn’t have to be given an incentive.” Both men spoke with the thick accent of Afrikaners. They spoke English, though it was obvious that it was not their first language or one they spoke often. Still, the blacks understood it better than the whites understood Afrikaans.
The younger man threw the cord over a thick log railing just above him leaving the two ends dangling. Looped through each end was a small, sharp metal hook. O’knomo raised his head and watched as it slid down until it was just past his head. Then, the taller man grabbed the ends and dug the hooks into O’knomo’s upper back. The tall man was skillful as he maneuvered the sharp daggers deep into O’knomo’s skin to stab into muscle.
O’knomo was tied to the wall and couldn’t move. The shorter man, having put on some gloves, grabbed the cords and heaved down on it with all his strength. O’knomo felt the hooks dig and began to pull tightly. At the same moment, plastic sheeting was dropped over his head and pressed firmly against his face. He could feel the air getting thin as the bag tightened around his neck. O’knomo almost forgot about the hooks in his back, as he struggled to breathe. Every breath of life was being blocked. His heart was racing with the terror of knowing he was going to die.
O’knomo was jolted awake. Suddenly, it was all gone. He was looking at the bleak walls of his office and confronted with the ghostly image of Sauwa Catcher looking back at him with her cold gaze. His heart was racing as if he had just run a marathon.
Jamie Nawati entered the room. His boss looked bedraggled. “You okay?” he inquired, not quite sure what to do.
Wrestling his way out of his chair, O’knomo tried to stand up; he felt his legs begin to buckle. He managed to grab hold of his desk to stabilize himself. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, a concerned Nawati racing over to help. O’knomo raised his hand to stop him. “I just need a minute.” He walked slowly out of his office and down the hall to the nearby washroom. His head was still swimming as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He went through the door and made his way to the closest sink. The cold water felt good. He splashed it on his face. It was then that he noticed his shirt was soaked in sweat ─ a familiar byproduct of the night terrors that still haunted him.
He returned to the office to see Nawati standing by attentively looking concerned. “Everything alright, sir?”
O’knomo waved him off with a slight shake of his head. “I’m fine.”
“Ghosts of our past don’t rest easy, do they?” Nawati commented.
O’knomo said nothing. He looked back at his subordinate with an expressionless face. Nawati continued, “I have them myself. I wake up in a cold sweat just like you after reliving episodes from my past ─ neither memory nor my conscience will let me forget. Like you, I spend my waking hours trying to make sense of it all.”
Reaching for his shoulder, O’knomo felt the scars where the hooks had been. Years later, even through his cloth shirt, he could feel the marks as if the whole episode had happened yesterday. “My ghosts just won’t rest. The war is over, yet the past still lives with me.”
“It lives with all of us,” Nawati stated. “And, it won’t be forgotten easily, not for us, and certainly not for her.” He nodded over at the ghostly photograph on the wall.
Leaning against the edge of his desk, O’knomo stared at her picture. He wasn’t sure what to think. “You really think she’s bothered by any of what she’s done? After all, we mustn’t forget she’s still plying her trade and no longer for her cause.”
“She’s doing what I would have done in her place,” Nawati revealed. “When you’re hunted and desperate, you make decisions that cause you to question yourself. When I was alone and hunted by dangerous people, I made my own pact with the devil. With what she has done in Ireland, she’s either fighting for survival, or she is a stone cold killer.”
O’knomo sighed lightly, “I will let you in on a secret, James.”
Nawati turned to face him. O’knomo continued, “I can’t let her go. I look at her on that wall and read her file. All I can think is that catching her is the step needed to finally see some peace, some closure. Yet, listening to those smug politicians, both black and white, talk as if they had been in the jungles and the townships fighting and enduring hardships alongside the rest of us was almost nauseating. I feel more akin to her ─ another fighter in the trenches. I was tortured by ruthless men who enjoyed being sadistic. Many of them used the covert war to justify indulging their sadism. I have no illusions about that. There is the concept that we are giving too much respect to someone who could just as easily be another psychopath herself. Yet, something tells me that will not be her story when we finally have a chance to confront her. I feel strange about all of this.”
“As do I,” Nawati agreed. “I think it strange that our white compatriots seem more deep-seated hatred for her than we do. I’ll admit, she is an assassin ─ she’s killed many. But, so have we. And, like you, it’s hard not to be able to relate in some way. We both bear scars from our enemy and people on her side. She survived Rhodesia and coming to South Africa. The Afrikaners despised her but they needed her people for their expertise in counter-insurgency and clandestine warfare.”
“At present, I just want to look her in the eye and see her face to face,” O’knomo rubbed his eyes; he was tired. The tension of the job was getting to him. “Did you come here to tell me something?” He suddenly wondered what Jamie was doing here when he was supposed to be at the foreign office monitoring communications with the embassies in England and Ireland.
“Yes,” Nawati exclaimed. “We got a quick message from our embassy in Ireland. They have informed us that Ms. Catcher is the prime suspect in another set of killings. This time it’s two more detectives of the Garda.”
O’knomo rolled his eyes. “My God, that woman is littering the streets with corpses.”
Sauwa arrived just in time to catch the payphone ringing. She raced over and grabbed the phone from the cradle. “Hello?” she answered.
“Swan, is that you?” She recognized the voice instantly.
“Banker?” she replied immediately. She didn’t like the idea of not having some sort of security protocol with all that was at stake. However, the code names sufficed. Only the other knew the voice that each had become familiar with.
“It’s me,” he replied. “We have to meet now!” He wasted no time getting to the point. “Our original plan has been scrapped. Meet me at our first meeting place. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Banker finished his comment with a click and the dial tone signaled Sauwa was no longer speaking to anyone.
It was getting dark. The evening air was gradually becoming colder. Thankfully, Sauwa managed to duck into a secondhand store and obtain a worn but still usable sailor’s P-coat. It helped keep her warm as she traversed the streets.
Hailing a cab she was instantly picked up by one passing by. Normally, she preferred buses; they were a more discrete mode of travel. Bus drivers tended to be oblivious to the numerous faces that boarded day in and day out. The patrons on public transportation seemed to possess a similar apathy to those around them as they focused on the issues of their own muddled lives. However, she was strapped for time, and an everyday taxi cab was much safer than walking around town with every policeman in the city looking her.
Pints was a little busier than the last time she had visited. She proceeded to casually walk along the streets scanning for any possible sign she was walking into a trap. By the sound of Banker’s tone, more exasperated than scared or desperate, she accepted this emergency meeting was legitimate.
She had finished doing her little recce when she saw Banker approaching the door to the pub. She caught up with him as he was about to enter. He looked down to see her right behind him. There wasn’t time for pleasantries or initial conversation. He took her by the arm and beckoned her to come with him. Confu
sed, Sauwa didn’t resist as she was being led down the street. She wanted to ask questions but, by the determined look on Banker’s face and the number of strangers walking by who could catch their conversation, she opted to remain quiet.
They continued walking. At the intersection, they turned and walked a few more feet before Sauwa was forcefully ushered into the backseat of a waiting car with Banker following close behind. The car door was barely shut before the vehicle drove away. “What the hell!” she cried out angrily as she moved awkwardly for a better position. “What are you doing?” She still wasn’t sure if she was being abducted. The lack of people and the fact that Banker wasn’t trying to sedate or restrain her left her reasonably sure she wasn’t in any immediate danger.
“A lot has happened since the last time we spoke.” Banker was finally talking to her. “The old plan is no good, and we have to make alternate arrangements.” Sauwa looked at the burly figure driving the car. She had never seen him before and was hesitant to speak with him present.
Sensing her concern, Banker updated her immediately. “He’s an old friend, and one we need right now. He already knows most everything.”
“I do, Ms. Catcher,” the burly man interjected.
Sauwa was startled these men knew her real name. “When did you find out?”
“You’ve become a hot item with the police,” Banker replied. “They know who you are and somehow have a photograph of you.”
“What?” Her eyes lit up.
“That’s why we had to change plans,” Banker continued. “I was down at the port when I called you. The cops are all over the port right now looking for a female matching your description. They’re keeping it quiet, but I have some friends in the department. They explained to me how they’re looking for this female assassin who they want for the killing of the police detective and the five guys at the warehouse. She goes by the name of Sauwa Catcher. I’m assuming that’s your actual name. My friend said your picture has been floated to the units sent to patrol the harbor. We can’t get out that way.”