by David Holman
Mallinson glared at him. ‘I’m sure that breaking into the houses of innocent citizens by government agents, is cause for an official inquiry, Mr Gable. I happen to have some influential friends in British parliament who would be most concerned about this.’
Cunningham suddenly pushed back his chair. ‘I have had enough of this bullshit you’re giving us man! You conceived a plan that would change Southern Africa and bring tragedy to millions, including my country. You’re lucky I haven’t got a gun right now, but even so, if it wasn’t for my friends here trying the diplomatic approach, I would’ve climbed over this table and broken your bloody neck by now, man.’
Mallinson stepped a few paces backwards. ‘Come now, Mr Cunningham, there’s no need for violence. Looks like you’ve all made a dreadful mistake and I hope you manage to track down the real perpetrators of this fiendish plot. Good day to you.’
They watched him walk out of the bar to just beat the two businessmen into a taxi parked in a rank outside.
Gable noted the number of it. ‘Well, I guess we can keep an eye on him.’ He put the notepad back into his jacket as another taxi pulled up for the men who had lost out on the first one.
Cunningham went to the bar and ordered himself another beer, then turned to the Englishmen. ‘So that’s it guys? He gets to walk away, just like that? You know he’ll never come back to England to face what he’s done, despite he’s bloody lying to us.’
Swan sighed. ‘There’s a bigger picture to all this, I’m sure of it. Question is, how far does it go?’
Cunningham sat back down and lit a cigarette. ‘You mentioned something about white hardliners? What did you mean by that?’
‘You know already, Peter, there’s a lot of people who don’t want to see a black majority government in Rhodesia, or Zimbabwe as it will soon be known, and we’ve seen what measures they are prepared to go to stop it from happening. I don’t think what happened this morning is the end of all this.’
Gable asked. ‘Do you think there’ll be civil war, Alex?’
Swan took another sip of his cocktail. ‘I don’t know, Andrew. But, with the British hosting the talks in London, it looks like support is swaying to end UDI for good. Maybe this is just the beginning for the end of white rule in Southern Africa.’
Cunningham chuckled suddenly remembering what Compton Nash has said. ‘If you think my country will ever have a black-ruled government, you’ve got to be joking.’
Swan placed his hand on the South African’s shoulder. ‘Things change, Peter. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Who knows, maybe it will happen someday. After all, we’ve already seen the signs, in places such as Soweto, for instance.’
Cunningham laughed off the idea. He thought it best to change the subject. What happened with the student uprising in the township, still carried a bitter taste in his government’s circles. ‘So, what happens now with Mallinson?’
Swan turned his head to look outside where he had last seen him. ‘He’s going nowhere. He’s practically a prisoner here now,’ he suddenly recalled how Arthur Gable had mentioned the Great Train Robbery, ‘similar in fact to a criminal named, Ronnie Biggs in Rio, until we can start the extradition process. When the time comes, we’ll know exactly where we can find him.’
Cunningham’s eyes flamed. ‘So how long will all that take?’
Swan sighed. ‘It may take a while to jump through the various hoops of Kenyan extradition laws, before you can even ask for a requisition for surrender.’
Cunningham shook his head in disgust. ‘The bastard could be gone by then to who knows where? As far as I’m concerned, this man is a terrorist, and he should be treated as one, whether he’s in another country or not, justice has to be done.’
Swan turned to him. ‘And what do you propose, Peter?’
‘Take him back to England, or Rhodesia maybe? I could even take him back to my country, because of the missiles.’
Swan smiled. ‘And how do you suppose we do that, clunk him on the head, place him in a crate and put him in the cargo hold? It doesn’t work like that, Peter. If he tries to leave, he’ll be arrested by the Kenyan authorities. I’ll contact London and arrange for a warrant. We just have to be patient and follow this country’s code of conduct.’
Gable intervened, attempting to calm the situation, ‘Alex could be right, Peter. Mallinson could be the key to members of a conspiracy. Who knows? Leaving him here under surveillance, he could lead us to the other players.’
Cunningham moved in front of Swan and Gable. ‘I don’t know what to say here, guys. I think it’s time we went our separate ways. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to Pretoria for a debrief.’ He shook hands. ‘It’s been great working with you.’ He turned to walk out of the bar, but Swan wasn’t finished.
‘Just one minute, Peter, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
Cunningham halted in his tracks. ‘And what’s that, Alex?’
‘I was just wondering if you can tell me what you were doing in the George Hotel in Axminster, on the night of the Baines incident?’ Cunningham paused for an answer. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Alex. I’ve never been to this place you mention. In fact, I’ve never been to your country.’
‘So, a Peter Cunningham checking in the day before, then checking out the morning after at Heathrow, under diplomatic jurisdiction, is just a coincidence then?’
Cunningham looked down at the floor. ‘Looks like it was, Alex. Cunningham is a common name in my country.’
Swan paused before saying what he had been waiting to say since leaving Rhodesia. ‘There was no Locust Rain in those missiles, was there, Peter? You swapped the phials with Munroe in the bar, that night. You see, after examining the clean-room at Haldenbrook, I noticed the empty tubes which supposedly contained the Locust Rain, just had the handwritten labels on them, whereas the tubes Andrew and I saw at Porton Down, also had the manufacturer’s crest of an osprey on them, which really only leads to one conclusion. Phillip Munroe is NIS, isn’t he?’
Cunningham smiled. ‘Munroe works for who he wants to. But Alex, most of all, he’s a patriot. In the end, it’s all for the good of his native country.’
Gable asked, ‘By the way, where is Munroe?’
‘He’s driving the Leopard back to Salisbury, he said he also had to take care of some personal business, whatever that is,’ replied Cunningham.
Swan raised his free hand. ‘And what about the Locust Rain?’
Cunningham smirked. ‘You mentioned earlier that things change, Alex,’ he winked. He then put out his hand, but it wasn’t taken. Realising he had now upset his English colleagues, he lowered his arm. ‘Well, take care, gentlemen. Good luck with your man.’
Swan suddenly felt betrayed. They had just been used by the South African government, the whole thing had been one big diversion. Britain was no longer the only country with LRX-435 in their stockpile of biological weapons. All they could do at that moment was watch defeatedly, as Cunningham headed outside the bar to disappear into another taxi.
He turned to Gable. ‘Right, Andrew. Let’s make that call and then try and trace where Mallinson went to. Then, I think it’s high time we headed home. I still have to write my report for this bloody review, and knowing that we’ve just been had by the South Africans is not going to bode too well with Rupert Soames.
30
A few weeks later, in a services control room opposite Lancaster House in London, Alex Swan and Andrew Gable were speaking with John Stratton, while across the road over at Lancaster House, the final agreement talks to end the conflict in Rhodesia was coming to a close.
All parties had signed and the delegates were now listening to the plenary speeches given by the British Prime Minister and members of her cabinet.
Back in the control room, Stratton was approached by one of the officers he had brought with him, a young woman with chestnut hair and wearing a grey suit.
‘Sorry to interrupt you sir,’ I have just been
asked to give you this,’ she said, apologetically.
Stratton turned to Swan and Gable. ‘Gentlemen, this is Miss Sophie Lewis. She did the little poke about inside Mallinson’s house. Miss Lewis, this is Alex Swan and Andrew Gable of SID.’
Swan and Gable greeted her. ‘Please to meet you, Miss Lewis,’ said Swan.
‘And, might I say, a fine job you did in getting the information we needed,’ added Gable
She forced an appreciative smile, and still holding the note for her boss in her hand prompted him to read it. ‘I think you better read this, sir, it’s from Kenya Station.’
Swan and Gable looked at each other. This had to be something concerning Henry Mallinson. Perhaps it was an update report on his surveillance?
Stratton took it and after reading, he was stunned in silence. He handed to Swan who read it out loud to his colleague.
‘From S Timpson - Station K to J Stratton -Thames House. We have received news this morning that Henry Mallinson was killed while driving a car on a track road in the savanna plains outside Mombasa. He was the only occupant and the wrecked car had been there at least three days before being discovered by farm workers. The body was identified from his wallet and a prescription of tablets and now lies in the mortuary of the Mombasa Hospital. Although difficult to confirm, a K Station operative is sure it is Mallinson.
Gable gasped. ‘Three days.’ He could only imagine what state it was found in, after various forms of wildlife had visited the crash site.
Swan nodded. ‘There’s also something else.’
Gable was intrigued. ‘What’s that, Alex?’ ‘Do you remember what Phillip Munroe told us.
‘Mallinson doesn’t drive. He suffers from epilepsy. I’ll lay odds on, that’s what the prescribed medication was for.’
Gable was about to comment, when a big commotion in the room indicated the delegates were about to leave Lancaster House.
Stratton turned to Swan. ‘This business about Mallinson will have to wait, chaps. We’ve been called to mingle outside.’ He led them through the door, to head downstairs.
Outside, they crossed the road to stand next to a group of uniformed policemen.
As the delegates shuffled towards awaiting limousines, boards of photographers surged forward for the best pictures. Some of the leaders stopped to give brief statements to reporters brandishing their pens and notebooks like a pack of word-hungry poets, while others disappeared into the cars.
Swan then saw people he instantly recognised.
Damien Wyatt was standing talking to Charles Lakeema behind a big man with oily skin, wearing a dark grey overcoat and fur hat. He lifted his collar to shield the cold breeze as he stood on the kerb waiting for his limousine to pull up in front of him.
The car crept to the kerb, and as Jericho Kuwani stepped forward, he was suddenly jolted by something hitting the back of his left leg. He turned to see Lakeema smiling an apology for knocking him with his briefcase. Kuwani smiled back, shrugging off the incident and continued with his task of climbing into the car.
Swan and Gable crossed the road to see Wyatt. Perhaps he might be able to tell them more of what went on inside. Swan then acknowledged Charles Lakeema. ‘Mr Lakeema, Alex Swan. We met at Government House a few weeks ago?’
Lakeema shook his hand in recognition. ‘Mr Swan. It is good to see you again, you have made a recovery from your unfortunate accident, I see. Mr Wyatt informed me of what happened.’
Swan smiled. ‘Nothing too serious, I still have a bit of difficulty breathing, but it seems to be getting better, especially now I’m back in the cold air of an English winter.’
Gable walked behind Swan colliding with something on the ground. He looked down seeing Lakeema’s black crocodile skin briefcase and suddenly, it looked familiar to him. His attention was then drawn to a small hole on the side of it and he suddenly recalled where he had seen it before. It was the one on the workbench inside Nash’s barn. The one the Rhodesian technical wizard had been hasty to remove.
Inside Kuwani’s limousine, as it drove along Holland Park, the driver was alerted by a gurgling sound from his only passenger. He stared through the rear-view mirror to find Kuwani vigorously rubbing his leg where the briefcase had hit him. Then, as the leader of the DAGA party looked up at him, the driver noticed his passenger’s eyes had turned a bloodshot red.
Kuwani loosened his tie. He was finding it difficult to breathe. He then clutched at his right arm and salivating a mixture of saliva and blood, surged forward as if to vomit.
The driver checked his mirror for traffic. He had just turned onto the Westway heading for Heathrow Airport and pulling the long black car over to the roadside, climbed out to open the rear door. Kuwani had slumped over onto his side. Looking up at him with a frightened stare, his body began to convulse. The driver then panicked. Desperate, he looked up and down the busy carriageway for a passing police car, but realising his actions were futile, decided he would get his passenger as fast as he could to the airport. There would be people at the terminal who might be able to help.
Half an hour later, he pulled up to other members of the delegation queuing for the airliner, scrambled out of the car and opened the back door to find lifeless eyes staring back at him. Although not having a lot of option in what to do, he knew he had been too late.
Back at the control room opposite Lancaster House, following Gable’s suspicions about the briefcase, Damien Wyatt had detained Charles Lakeema.
Swan and Gable now had the case and rested it on a table in front of a confused John Stratton.
‘What’s this all about, Alex?’
Gable explained about when he had last seen this case and the way Nash had hastily placed it out of sight, following his enquiry. ‘He said the hole was for a small camera,’ he recalled.
Swan tested the clips, noticing they were unlocked. ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ He flicked open the case to reveal the real reason for the drilled-out hole. A four-inch-long metal tube was mounted in place, covering it. At the end of the tube, Swan noticed a small needle. It then didn’t take anyone looking at it to realise what it would be used for. The big question was, what was inside the tube?
Stratton suddenly thought back to what happened to the Bulgarian defector on Waterloo Bridge last year. It had been the whole reason why Operation Butterfly wasn’t passed on to SID.
The briefcase would now be taken away for careful examination. He suspected that inside the tube would be a spring-loaded syringe. It was only fifteen minutes later, a call was received from Heathrow informing of the sudden death of Jericho Kuwani. Swan then didn’t need anything else to work out who Mallinson’s inside man was. He marched to the room followed by Gable and without knocking, opened the door.
Charles Lakeema was sitting at a table and across from him was Damien Wyatt. Swan walked over to them and pulled a chair, while Gable stood with the uniformed constable who had remained in the room since Lakeema had been brought in.
Swan looked into the eye of the Rhodesian Land Minister. ‘Mr Lakeema, you’re being detained because we believe you are responsible for the attempted murder of Jericho Kuwani.’
Lakeema stared back, confused. Surely the toxin had worked? He had been informed there was enough in the metal phial to kill a man, any man, including a 20 stone veteran bushman like Kuwani.
Swan chose not to let this man know the deadly weapon had succeeded. ‘What was it, Charles? What’s in the tube?
Lakeema remained silent, staring at his large neatly manicured hands which began to shake. Surely the man was dead?
Swan bit back. ‘I really think you should co-operate, Charles. It would help us all a great deal, including you, if you just tell us everything.’
Lakeema looked across at Swan. ‘As a member of the Zimbabwe government. I have diplomatic immunity, and shall refrain from answering any of your questions, Mr Swan, until I meet with an envoy from my embassy.’
Swan looked across at Wyatt. ‘Has Rhodesia House been
informed?’
Wyatt nodded. ‘First thing I did was get in contact. They are sending someone over.’
Swan turned back to Lakeema. ‘Okay, Charles. Following international diplomatic law, I’m prepared to wait for them to meet with you.’ He gestured to Wyatt. ‘Damien, might I have a word with you outside?’ Swan shuffled Wyatt out of the room and Wyatt closed the door behind him. Swan then informed him the news of Kuwani’s death, ‘we don’t want Lakeema to think he’s succeeded. I saw his reaction in there, and I want to keep him thinking Kuwani’s still alive. Are you with me?’
Wyatt nodded, looking at his watch. ‘Let him meet with the envoy. I’ll be with them, so will present my brief, after which, he’ll probably be taken into custody under jurisdiction of our government law.’
Swan agreed, but he needed to know something else. ‘There’s also Lakeema’s connection with Mallinson and why they would want Kuwani dead?’
‘Well, maybe I can ask him once the envoy gets here,’ suggested Wyatt.
Swan thought that a good idea. He knew Kuwani had been a threat to ZANU PF, perhaps a future coup had been planned by the deceased warlord? His own DAGA party was strong, with defectors from both black parties, despite his support for a ZANU government. With Kuwani in power, the noose against white rule in Southern Africa would begin to tighten. It was now becoming clear to him why he had to be assassinated. Cut off the head of the snake and the rest of the body will eventually wither and die. But there was still something else he had missed, something that linked to Mallinson.
31
Damien Wyatt sat with Desmond Trevant, the envoy sent from Rhodesia House, had recently arrived. They had been inside the room for over an hour, and from time to time, Wyatt called Stratton to join them.
Charles Lakeema had not said much in this time.
Earlier, Swan had briefed Stratton, loading him with questions to put to the Rhodesian minister and together with Wyatt, they had interrogated the man within the restrictions of diplomatic law. However, each time Stratton had returned to Swan, there were no answers for the questions that had been asked. Lakeema had even tried to deny the assassination attempt on Kuwani.
