Spears of Defiance

by David Holman

  ‘He left for a handsome little job in Salisbury, Head of Government Security.’

  Swan shifted in his seat. ‘Can you tell us anymore about him?’

  Cunningham cleared his throat. It was something he never enjoyed re-visiting. The slightest mention of this man was enough to raise his blood pressure. The corruption had not only left an almost unrepairable dent in the department’s armour, but had also left a personal scar on his career. ‘Wyatt joined us from the Military Police and was department head within two years. A lot of us have been in BOSS a long time and were more worthy of the job than he ever was. But, he impressed the right people and that was that. Then we had the corruption scandal, and the witch hunt. He left no stone unturned, he had us one by one in this office and grilled us until we were golden brown. Then came my suspension, as I was accused of passing information to government officials.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Bloody course not, Alex!’ Cunningham felt insulted. ‘I was set up – and I think, I’ve always thought it was Wyatt. You see, what he didn’t realise, is that I was doing my own little investigation myself. I had a few contacts who kept me posted on what Wyatt was up to, where he went, who he met. I think he discovered this and saw me as a threat.’

  ‘So, he tried to get you out?’ Gable interrupted.

  ‘Precisely, Andrew. In the end, he knew the writing was on the wall for him, so he found a way out by taking the cushy job offer from Smith’s government.’

  Swan nodded. ‘And even with the country under the temporary leadership of Muzorewa, he’s still head of their internal security?’

  ‘That’s right. But if you ask me, Alex, he’s a viper at Cleopatra’s right bosom. Wyatt doesn’t like the blacks. He’s always been a hardliner as far as apartheid is concerned. He remained for a reason, while others left after the changes. What that reason is, is any body’s guess.’

  Swan looked again at the photographs. The images of the missile launch vehicles had suddenly set his mind racing. Why specifically had these been the target for the Recce assault team? Surely, the South African’s were not planning an air strike, this would break the agreement. Stability had finally been restored to the region and to carry out something like that would be a political disaster for this country. There had to be something else. ‘What happened to Barratt and his men?’

  ‘They were captured and executed. We received his head in a wooden box wrapped in ostrich feathers - the calling card of DAGA.’

  Gable suddenly felt nauseous and got up to take a sip of water from the cooler. He had realised how brutal this conflict was. What he had seen on news reports, was not even the half of it. The men then decided to concentrate on the reason Swan and Gable had come to South Africa – the whereabouts of Phillip Munroe. The findings in the file on the man were interesting. Not only had Munroe been an Ex Recce trooper, he had also been a Selous Scout and for a brief time, in the Rhodesian SAS. His service record showed action in Angola, Mozambique and Zambia as well as operations in Rhodesia. He had also served in Northern Ireland on attachment with Number 3 Parachute Regiment.

  Swan recalled at the back of the file was a red envelope which he instantly understood the significance of. This man had also obviously been involved in clandestine work. He began thinking back to his trip to Camp Echo. Munroe needed Semtex from IRA sources. This had been confirmed from the association with Hennessy and the Libyan. The ship was due to dock at Beira tomorrow. Of course, there was now a possibility the snatch of Ramir by the CIA, could mean this shipment had been cancelled which would leave Munroe with no explosives. He looked at the file on the desk. But why would this man who showed an impeccable service history, suddenly want to become a terrorist? He turned to Cunningham. ‘Do you know who Munroe might associate with, here in South Africa or maybe in Rhodesia?’

  Cunningham pondered on this for a few moments. ‘There is this chap, one of his old Recce buds. I know where to find him, so maybe we could go and see him?’ Cunningham gestured to the window. ‘We’ll find him at an old soldier’s watering hole, right here in downtown Pretoria.’ He turned back to his guests. But that can be tomorrow, you both look like you’re dead on your feet from the jet lag, so how about I arrange a car to take you to your hotel and we’ll catch up in the morning. We start early here, so shall we say the car picks you guys up for six?’ Cunningham had just remembered something else. ‘It’s also The Day of the Vow ceremony tomorrow, and you guys have just got to see that.’

  Swan and Gable thought it would be a good idea to retire early for the day. They had exhausted the resources here, and Cunningham’s predictions had been correct, they were tired from their trip. It had been a useful couple of hours, and they had found out a lot more about their man, but an air of mystery still remained about their elusive Mr Munroe.

  18

  The next morning, Henry Mallinson walked across the floor of his Mombasa hotel room to the ringing telephone, having receiving news from his informant of SID visiting Hull Docks.

  Taking a pen, he scribbled a name and some other details then put down the receiver. He sat staring at what he had written for a few minutes, the cogs turning in his head. A newspaper he had brought with him on the bed showing the headline of the mysterious girl found in the Regent’s Canal had revealed her as a known IRA terrorist and Special Branch were now looking for a South African who could be connected. The released photo-fit of this man had been clear to Mallinson who he was. This had made him slightly edgy about the trail coming back to him. If they found Munroe, the bastard could decide to do a deal and not only tell them about Locust Rain, but could put the finger on who is behind it. There was only one reason SID had been in Hull, they were investigating into the missing Buccaneer. If they should trace this to Haldenbrook, then Cascade would be dead in the water. He looked across the room to his brown leather travel clock. It would be almost 12pm there.

  He angrily picked up the phone again and dialled an international number. In just three rings, it was answered by a black housemaid who recognising the voice, had instantly fetched her employer. ‘Toby, we could have a problem. The Buccaneer is being tracked down by British government agents. This could mean they’re already here in Africa.’ He glanced again at the newspaper. ‘This incident with the girl in London, has started a manhunt for my man I used to get the LRX-435. Have the cannisters been loaded into the missiles yet?’ He listened attentively, pleased to hear this task was about to be carried out. ‘In that case, we need to remain vigilant. I’ll make arrangements to delay their enquiries, and you will need to get everyone out of the farm as soon as you set off for the target. Make sure we destroy everything as I said before, especially now, and my men will do the rest to make it look like another white homestead has been hit by Kuwani’s supporters. By then, it would be too late anyway. Kuwani and his DAGA thugs will be washed away, and the country will be in chaos. Remember, this is not your country anymore, Toby. I’ll see you here in Mombasa on Friday. Good luck. I want you to know your family would be proud of what you are about to do. They were great patriots. I’m only truly sorry they have to be left behind in the soils of Haldenbrook. But, don’t forget, if Cascade is successful, then we will soon be back where we all belong.’

  Mallinson abruptly cut the call, he had to act fast. Breathing heavily, he dialled another number using the same dialling code, only this time, it was to a government office in Salisbury.

  *

  Swan and Gable followed Cunningham into the bar in Nana Sita Street, Downtown Pretoria. The place was busy with people who had just left the exact location they had been to.

  Earlier, and being the 16th November, Cunningham had treated his British guests to a spectacle they would probably never forget. Today was a poignant day in in South Africa’s history, The Day of the Vow. Inside the immense Voortrekker Monument, the crowd had gathered for the light ceremony where at exactly 12pm, the sun had appeared overhead of the structure and shone through the small round window at the top of th
e dome, illuminating the carved inscription on the cenotaph stone, Ons vir Jou Suid Afrika.

  While Swan and Gable had been mesmerized by what was happening, Cunningham had explained that the ray of light symbolized God’s blessing on the lives of the Voortrekkers on the day of the Battle of Blood River in 1838. It was here the famed Laaver, an improvised fortress, had been formed from the wagons.

  Swan promised to himself to bring Janet back here. She had South African blood in her, maybe even going back as far as the Voortrekkers, themselves. He knew one of these ancestors had fought against the British during the Boer War. He needed to call her. Wherever he was, he always tried to talk to her and seeing all this, made him think of her sitting at her desk, alone in Wellesley Mews. Now in the bar, he had the opportunity. He also reminded Andrew he should do the same and call Sandra.

  He left the two men at the crowded bar and walked over to the telephone booth. The ringing tone was soon interrupted by the familiar female voice of his wife.

  ‘Whitehall 9921’

  ‘Hello darling, from a sunny Pretoria.’ He informed her of what he had just seen and how the case was proceeding. ‘How’s things your end with Mallinson Shipping?’

  Janet told him the company mainly used two ships to transport goods to Mozambique using two ports and around the time of the Buccaneer incident, one of those ships had docked into Beira with a cargo of farming equipment. This confirmed Gable’s findings. The ship was called the Minerva. She had also done some research in tracing the same ship had transported the first batch of Buccaneers to South Africa during the mid-sixties, receiving details they were all wrapped in an oilskin fabric to protect them while at sea.

  Swan suddenly thought about the material he had found in that abandoned outbuilding. There had to be a connection. ‘That’s excellent work, my love. I’m not sure where we go from here. Andrew and I are with Cunningham in a bar about to meet an old friend of Munroe. So, I guess we see what develops from here.’

  Swan said his goodbyes before he received the usual lecture of being too old now to be running around chasing international terrorists. After all, it was one of the reasons he was grateful Andrew had decided to come aboard to succeed his father. The younger Gable, although now in his mid-forties, was still energetic and vibrant with a sharp mind. If it wasn’t for the upcoming review of his department, Swan would have requested an expansion, finding himself once again in charge of a small team; a position he not had since 1961 when head of A Section of the Security Services. He walked back over to join the others, convinced in his mind, the missing Buccaneer of Operation Butterfly, had made its way to Southern Africa.

  The three men took their drinks and moved through the crowds. At the other end of the room, were a row of tables where at the last one, sat a man; his back was to them as he looked down into his half-empty glass.

  Cunningham walked into his vision. ‘Hi Solly. Long-time no see, man?’

  Solly Leith looked up into the face of the NIS officer. ‘Not long enough, Peter.’

  He stared at Cunningham’s companions as he did the introductions.

  ‘This is Alex Swan and Andrew Gable from London. They’re looking for a mutual friend of ours, Solly. Thought you might know where Phillip is.’

  Leith studied the two men as they took their seats in front of him. ‘Why do you want Munroe?’

  Swan took a sip of his beer. This gave him a few moments to take in the South African, his shabby jacket, fraying at the sleeves, unkempt mop of black greasy hair, red nose and puffy eyes, signs he was dealing with an alcoholic. ‘He’s connected to a case we’re working on.’

  The ex-Recce soldier listened as Swan explained.

  ‘So, Mr Leith, we need to speak with him. He may have got himself into a great deal of trouble without realising it. If you have had any contact with him, or know where he may be right now, we could help him. His life could be in danger.’

  Leith fiddled with an empty cigarette packet. Cunningham he could trust, but it was these other two men his suspicious mind wrestled with. If he told them where Munroe was, where would it lead?

  ‘Munroe’s a smart man. Whatever he’s gotten into, I’m sure he will be able to take care of himself.’

  Swan eased forward. ‘So, have you heard from him recently?’

  Leith gave a cruel smirk. ‘Course I have. In fact, Mr Swan, he was sitting right where you are the other day, man.’

  Gable intervened. ‘What day was that, Mr Leith?’

  Leith had to think through the fog of his alcohol-induced memory. ‘I think it was yesterday. He asked if he could use my couch for the night, so we came here had a few drinks, then went for something to eat.’

  ‘So where is he now, Solly?’ Cunningham was insistent.

  Leith sat himself up as if the sun had risen to disperse the fog. ‘He told me what happened in London to his friend, Siobhan. He was really cut up about it, man. I never seen him so angry as he was yesterday. Kept going on about how some Irish bloke called Jimmy-Boy Kerrigan, and how he’s going to pay for what he did. I think he loved her, you know.’

  Cunningham turned to the Englishmen. ‘Any ideas on who this Kerrigan is?’

  Swan shook his head. ‘I presume that he could be IRA. Although, the name doesn’t ring a bell.’ He looked over at his colleague who also showed no clue. ‘I could check with Thames House.’

  Cunningham came back to the point. ‘So where is he now, Solly?’

  ‘He’s in Salisbury. Said he has a job on over the border. He asked me if I was interested in earning some extra cash.’ Leith reached into his jacket pocket, took out a fresh packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘But after Angola, I don’t want any more of it.’ He leaned back and exhaled the tobacco from his lungs. ‘No, man. I just want to settle down, find a nice woman and buy a farm. Probably grow tobacco.’ He raised the cigarette packet. ‘Hopefully, it will be better than this shit.’

  ‘Did he say what sort of job?’ Swan asked.

  ‘Not really, but if he wanted me along, it has to be something that would make a large bang.’

  Cunningham briefly explained Solly Leith was a demolition man, familiar with all kinds of explosives and bomb-disposal techniques.

  ‘That would explain the Semtex information I got from the Libyan arms dealer,’ Swan commented. This now meant whatever this job was, would be in Rhodesia.

  Cunningham waved away Leith’s smoke from his face. ‘Do you happen to know where he’s staying?’

  ‘Where he usually stays, man, The Meikles, of course. Our home from home in the old days helping the scouts. God, man, did we have some wild times in that place.’ They allowed Leith to reminisce about his time in Rhodesia. He had been on several operations with the Selous Scouts, mainly as part of counter-insurgency Fireforce operations. ‘There was this one time when we were to be picked up by one of the Alouette gunships after a massive firefight in the bush, north of Bulawayo. Two came in low as the third dropped down for us. Then they were both gone in a flash, man. Just before they exploded, I saw two streaks from the hand-held Strelas close in on them.’ These thoughts had suddenly caused Leith to stare through the men into the past. ‘Poor bastards didn’t stand a chance. Those birds came down like bricks. Anyway, in all the commotion, we managed to jump in to the third and head off low in the opposite direction. Phillip saved my life that day. Just as we were climbing into that K Car, I was shot in the thigh and fell back on the ground. He leaned over, grabbed my webbing and pulled me up into the cabin. From that day on, I knew he was someone you needed with you, someone you could relying on when things turn crappy.’

  They were then interrupted by almost everybody getting up to head out of the bar and curious to these actions, Swan turned his head to the scene.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Cunningham looked at his watch. ‘Ah, it’s almost time for the flypast. Come on gents, this is something you also shouldn’t miss.’

  Swan rose from the table gesturing to the old soldier.
‘Are you coming, Mr Leith?’ Solly Leith put the bottle of beer to his lips. ‘No, you go Mr Swan. I’ve seen it all before, man. Many times.’

  Swan and Gable shook his hand then followed their South African host out of the doors and into the street.

  Outside, Cunningham suggested they would get a better view up the road. They filed through the surge of bodies heading the same way.

  At the top of the road, Cunningham pointed to the Voortrekker Monument. ‘They are going to come from that direction, fly over the Municipal Buildings and around the monument.’

  A few minutes later, a roar of jet noise could be heard coming from the left of the city, then quickly into view came two sleek delta-winged French Mirage jets followed by two of the larger Mirage F-1 fighter-bombers. But it was the two aircraft flying a distance behind them which Swan had focused himself on. Much larger than the slimline planes flying before them and despite how far away they were, he instantly recognised them as Buccaneers.

  They watched in awe as the formation flew at low-level over the Arcadia Building, Cunningham informing it would be noisy in the NIS office right about now. Then, almost as one, the formation turned and headed for the monument, executing a wide full circle, before heading back to the direction in which they appeared. Suddenly, the other spectators roared their appreciation and Cunningham shouted over the din, ‘What do you think of that then, gents?’

  Swan nodded his approval as Gable kept watching the jets as they descended in the sky and turned.

  ‘Are they landing?’

  Cunningham smiled. ‘Yes, Andrew. They’re from Waterkloof Air Base, which is just outside Pretoria, to the south.’

  Swan homed in on what Cunningham had said. ‘So, those Buccaneers will be there?’ Cunningham confirmed, curious as to the sudden interest.

  Swan suddenly thought about Operation Butterfly. If the aircraft had gone to Rhodesia, he needed to get some more information as to what purpose it was to be used. ‘Is there any chance you could arrange a visit, Peter?’