War Cry

by Wilbur Smith

  Sorry, buster. No more peace and quiet for you, I’m afraid.

  “Excuse me,” Saffron began, in a sharp, high-pitched voice that any South African would recognize as the whine of a privileged female member of the country’s British community. “Are you that van Rensburg fellow?”

  Van Rensburg closed his eyes for a second, as if asking God to give him strength. Then he placed his glass on the table, stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet, for he could hardly remain seated in the presence of a lady.

  “Johannes van Rensburg at your service, madam,” he said, speaking English, with a thick Afrikaner accent. He was in his mid-forties, quite tall and held his head high, with an air of self-importance. “Might I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Petronella Fordyce,” she said, with as inane a grin as she could manage.

  “Good evening, Miss Fordyce, but please, I am not sure why you have, ah, blessed me with your company.”

  “Oh gosh! Sorry, of course, silly me, I should have explained myself. Well, it’s very simple. I think you’re absolutely spot-on . . . with your opinions, I mean.”

  Van Rensburg looked at her with a cautious frown. “What opinions would those be?”

  “About racial superiority and all that.” Saffron tilted her head conspiratorially toward van Rensburg and said, “Look, of course I want us to win the war and so forth. I’m jolly well not a traitor . . .”

  “Of course not.”

  “But Herr Hitler has some very sound ideas about race.”

  “I concur. I studied in Germany some years ago and was able to observe affairs there at firsthand. I believe that the effects of National Socialism were overwhelmingly positive.”

  “Well, he’s right about the Hebrews. Ghastly people. But of course, for those of us here in South Africa, the real problem is the blacks. We can’t have them getting the vote, or being educated at the same schools as us, or living in houses like ours, can we?”

  “Not in my view, no.”

  “It would be a disaster. They wouldn’t have the first idea how to run a country. We have to have a white South Africa. It’s the only way.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you, Miss Fordyce.”

  “Gosh, thank you! All my chums in Sandown will be fearfully impressed that you think I’m perceptive!”

  “Sandown, eh?” said van Rensburg. “That’s a very nice part of the world. Big houses, lots of money, stables and paddocks everywhere. What is it they call you, the ‘mink and manure set’?”

  He spoke in what was intended to be a light-hearted style, but Saffron could hear the resentment and suppressed hatred in his voice. She ignored it, however, and brayed, “Personally, I can’t abide the smell of horse-droppings, but I do love a nice new fur coat!”

  As van Rensburg gave a condescending smile, Saffron frowned, in the manner of a stupid person attempting to seem thoughtful. “Look here, I quite understand that you speak for your people, but there are plenty of us on our side of the fence—British people, I mean—who wish that some of our leaders spoke the way that chaps like you do. I think you’re a bit of a hero, actually.”

  “Thank you . . .” A more contented look was coming over van Rensburg’s face, for few middle-aged men can resist being flattered by a beautiful young woman.

  “Look, I know this is very forward, but could I possibly ask you to sign my menu card, please? It really would be such a splendid souvenir.”

  “Of course.”

  Saffron handed over a menu, with the plain side up, and van Rensburg wrote his signature. He paused, his pen hovering over the blank white surface for a moment before adding some more words. When he passed her the card, Saffron saw that he had written: My God, My Volk, My Land, My Suid-Afrika, the motto of the Ossewabrandwag.

  “Now, if you will excuse me,” van Rensburg said. “It has been a pleasure meeting you.”

  He stuck out his hand and, as Saffron shook it, smiling broadly, a camera flashed. She turned to look at the photographer, still smiling, and he took another shot before disappearing off into the crowd to capture more of the revelers on film. They were all happy to pose for him, for everyone knew that the photographs would be put on sale to provide souvenirs of the happy occasion.

  •••

  “Who was the woman throwing herself at you, Hans—the one dressed like a whore?” Louise van Rensburg asked her husband as she returned to the table.

  “Some Englishwoman,” he said, hoping his indifference would save him. “She said she was interested in my political opinions.”

  “Ha!” his wife snorted. “That strumpet may be interested in many things, but I promise you politics is not one of them.”

  “Ja . . . you may very well be right,” van Rensburg replied. “Excuse me, my dear, but I think I see Charl du Preez over there. I just want to have a quick word with him. In private.”

  Louise van Rensburg took her seat, satisfied that her words had hit their mark as Johannes made his way across the room toward a tall, gray-haired figure, who greeted him with a broad smile and a warm handshake. She saw how quickly the other man’s expression changed as Hans started talking to him about the Englishwoman and smiled contentedly. Now you’re going to find out what happens to little vixens who try to interfere with my marriage, she thought.

  A waiter was gliding between the tables with a silver platter bearing glasses of brandy. “Cognac, madam?” he asked.

  “Ja,” Louise replied. “A large one, if you please.”

  Across the room, Charl du Preez, who held the rank of Deputy Commissioner in the South African Police, was nodding his head as van Rensburg finished his account of recent events.

  “You’re a lucky man, Hans, to have a wife who looks out for you the way Louise does. I think she’s right. I smell a rat. Someone has been trying to get at you in some way. It could be blackmail, could just be political intrigue. These pictures of you with this girl . . .”

  “I didn’t even know they were going to be taken . . .”

  “Ah, listen, I know you did nothing wrong, but we can both see how they could give a bad impression. But don’t worry. We are old friends and, more importantly, we are of one mind on the issues that matter. Just leave it to me, eh? By the time the night is out, I will have answers for you.”

  “Thank you, Charl. I won’t forget this.”

  •••

  Charl du Preez had arranged for a number of his men to pick up extra overtime for acting as traffic control, car-parking attendants and doormen at the event. One of them, a sergeant called Dawie Visser, was standing by the door to the banqueting hall. He had fifteen years’ service and, more importantly, strong support for Nationalist, and even OB, policies.

  It was clear from his flushed complexion and the concentration with which he snapped to attention at the senior officer’s approach that Visser had been indulging in plenty of the alcoholic refreshment that the event had to offer. But he was a big, strong, experienced individual. Du Preez felt sure that he could handle his drink like a man.

  “Hey, Visser, come here,” he ordered.

  “On my way, baas,” Dawie Visser replied.

  “Have you seen a young lady leave here in the last few minutes: tall, slender, black hair, blue eyes, black dress . . . showing a lot on top, if you get my meaning.”

  Visser grinned. “Oh, ja, I saw her all right. A little skinny for me, but she’s a real little hoer . . . you could smell it on her.”

  “Well, I need you to get close enough to smell her again. Is your pal Piet Momberg still on parking duty?”

  “Ja, he should be.”

  “Then he’ll know the car she left in. Take him and go after it . . . This woman said her name was Fordyce and she lived in Sandown, so she’ll be on the Jo’burg road.” Du Preez looked Visser in the eye. “Got that? Not too drunk to do your job?”

  “Not me, baas . . . Never.”

  “Then catch that woman. I know she was up to no good. You just find out what her
game was and report back to me—directly to me.”

  “This is unofficial?”

  “Strictly.”

  “You won’t mind if we arm ourselves . . . as self-protection?”

  “Whatever it takes, Visser. Just get it done.”

  •••

  It was past midnight and the Johannesburg road was deserted when Saffron saw the lights in her rear-view mirror. She thought nothing of it, but then the lights drew nearer until she had to tilt her head away from her rear-view mirror to rid her eyes of the glare.

  She sped up, hoping to get away from the dazzling light, but the car behind her kept pace. This wasn’t another late-night driver. Someone was following her.

  Saffron accelerated again. Shasa had loaned her a Ford Prefect from a collection of vehicles, seized during criminal investigations that were used for undercover work. It was a sturdy, comfortable vehicle, well-suited to an affluent housewife. But it was no racing machine and as hard as she pressed the accelerator to the floor, it would not go faster than sixty miles-per-hour.

  The car behind her came closer, then moved out into the other lane until it had drawn level. It stayed beside Saffron, matching her pace whether she sped up or slowed down. The word “POLICE” was written on the passenger door and a man in uniform was looking out of the window, studying her while another policeman beside him manned the wheel.

  There was something hostile about his gaze. He was trying to intimidate her and for a second he succeeded. Saffron felt a prickle of fear. She told herself to buck up. Pull yourself together, girl. You’ve seen much worse than this.

  Then the police car disappeared and when she looked in her mirror, the lights were behind her again. Fear was replaced by relief. Had your fun, have you? Bored of gawping at a lone woman?

  The headlights behind her came closer again and they were joined by the blue lights flashing from the roof of the police car. There was a brief wail of the siren, the headlights blinking repeatedly.

  Saffron had no option. She slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road.

  The police car came to a halt behind Saffron. The two officers emerged and began walking toward her. She glanced in the back mirror. They were big men, visible only as hefty silhouettes back-lit by the beams from their headlights. But that was enough to tell her that they were both armed: one with a pistol, the other holding a double-barreled shotgun across his body.

  South African police did not carry firearms on their regular duties. Whoever had sent these two was working off the books.

  Saffron turned her eyes away from the mirror, not wanting to lose what remained of her night vision. She heard the policemen’s footsteps, one on the tarmac to her right, the other on the gravelly earth at the passenger side of the car.

  The man on that side marched around the front of the car and stood about ten yards in front of her bonnet. He was carrying the shotgun. He raised it to his shoulder and pointed it at her. He didn’t say anything. The threat was self-evident: try to drive away and I’ll blow your head off.

  There was a sharp, metallic sound in her ear as the other policeman tapped the driver’s side window with the tip of the pistol barrel. He made a few circles in the air with the barrel.

  “Roll down the window,” he ordered.

  She did as she was told. The policeman bent his head toward the car. He was thick-necked, with a fleshy face, and there was sweat across his brow.

  “Show me your license,” he ordered and the pungent odor of alcohol, cigarette smoke and halitosis hit her like a gas attack.

  “I don’t have it on me,” Saffron said, cursing herself for her lack of thoroughness. She hadn’t counted on maintaining her Petronella Fordyce identity for any longer than it took to get van Rensburg’s signature on a piece of paper and his face in front of the party photographer, who was one of Shasa’s men. She would have to bluff it out.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” she drawled, slipping into Petronella’s spoiled, mink-and-manure accent. “But I must have left it in another handbag.”

  “Get out. And don’t try any funny stuff, hey?”

  He was speaking English, but the accent was Afrikaner. Saffron knew the type. If he wasn’t raised on a farm, his parents had been. He’d have no love at all for the British and even less for rich rooineks who had made their money on land that belonged to his people.

  “Now look here, officer,” Saffron protested. “My husband is a close friend of your commissioner and I can assure you he—”

  “Shut up, you lying bitch,” the policeman snarled. “Don’t fool with us.”

  Saffron took a step toward the policeman.

  “Hey, I said no funny stuff!” he shouted, raising his gun until the barrel was pointing at Saffron’s chest, two feet away from her. “Put your hands up!”

  Saffron raised her arms. So far, it was all going perfectly.

  “I’ve got you covered, Dawie!” the other cop shouted, edging around the front of the car.

  “Don’t you worry, Piet,” Dawie said. “I can handle this bitch by my . . .”

  Saffron had been watching his eyes. For a fraction of a second they were distracted. He couldn’t help glancing toward his pal. It was basic human nature.

  “. . . self,” Saffron muttered, finishing the sentence as she swung her right arm down hard onto Dawie’s right wrist, pushing the gun away and twisting her body to the left, out of his firing line, pulling Dawie between her and Piet.

  The pistol fired. The shot flew past Saffron and hit the car behind her as she brought her left hand onto the pistol and grabbed it firmly.

  The barrel, still hot from the blast, was now sticking out between her thumb and forefinger. Her other fingers were wrapped around the front of the trigger housing. Her right arm was still around the policeman’s wrist with her manicured nails digging into his skin.

  Dawie was screaming incoherent curses. His partner Piet was shouting, “I’ll shoot! I’ll shoot!”

  They were both drunk. Saffron could not rely on them to behave rationally.

  Having grasped the gun, her instinct, honed by hours of training at Arisaig, was to smash her knee into her opponent’s crotch. But the long evening dress made that impossible, so Saffron improvised and raised her high-heeled foot as high as she could and then slammed it down onto the top of Dawie’s foot.

  He howled in pain. He bent over, facing Saffron, with his back toward his partner. As his grip on the pistol relaxed. Saffron wrenched the gun from Dawie’s hand.

  Piet saw that Saffron was now armed.

  Dawie, hopping on one leg, straightened his back, blocking the view between Saffron and Piet.

  At that same moment, Piet fired.

  The full blast of a 12-bore shell, at point-blank range, ripped into Dawie’s back, punching him forward.

  Saffron threw herself out of the way as his body toppled like a chopped tree. She did her best to execute a controlled fall and roll, as Piet fired another wild blast where she had been standing. He missed.

  By the time she had got back on her feet, with the pistol held out in front of her, Piet had thrown his gun away, collapsed to his knees and was whimpering, “Dawie, boetie . . . I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  Saffron walked toward him. “Get up.”

  He lifted his head, saw her standing over him with his partner’s gun pointing down at his face and unleashed a short, sharp stream of profanities.

  Saffron whipped the gun barrel viciously across his temple.

  Piet howled in pain, and crouched down with his hands raised to his head in self-protection.

  “Get up,” Saffron ordered him, stepping back, away from his reach, but with the pistol still aimed toward the groveling policeman.

  The gun was a Webley Mark VI revolver, standard issue for British and Commonwealth troops during the First World War, carrying six .455 rounds in its chamber. Saffron was familiar with it from her small-arms training. It felt pleasantly comforting.

  Piet got to his
feet, holding the side of his head.

  “Do you have any handcuffs?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Cuff yourself . . . Do it!”

  Piet began fumbling at the handcuffs with clumsy fingers.

  Just then a terrible, scarcely human moan drifted across the night air. The shotgun blast had not been fatal.

  “Dawie!” Piet cried and took a step toward him.

  Saffron fired a shot into the ground an inch in front of him.

  “Cuff yourself,” she repeated.

  “He needs help, you heartless bitch!”

  “We can’t help him. Put on the cuffs and I’ll call for someone who can.”

  Piet looked at her furiously, muttered another expletive but obeyed her command.

  “Now walk, nice and steadily, to the back of your car.”

  That meant walking past Dawie. His back had been blasted away and a gaping hole revealed a horrific sight of minced flesh, splintered bone and pulsing blood. Dawie moaned again, more softly this time, and his legs twitched feebly.

  “Oh Jesus,” Piet said, then bent forward and threw up over the front of his shirt, down his trousers and onto his legs.

  “Keep walking,” Saffron said, barely glancing at the wounded man.

  They reached the police car. “Wait,” Saffron ordered. Keeping her eyes on Piet, she switched the gun into her left hand, leaned toward the car and grabbed the keys, which were still in the ignition.

  Piet had not tried to run away. He was being sick again.

  “Move,” she told him. They moved to the rear of the car. “Open the boot.”

  He fumbled with the handle, then stepped back as the boot swung up.

  “Get in.”

  Piet was about to protest but thought better of it. He got in and curled into a fetal position.

  Saffron slammed the boot shut then locked it. She wiped the keys thoroughly on her dress and then dropped them on the ground by the car.

  She cleaned the gun, and, holding it by the barrel, with the fabric of her skirt between her fingers and the metal, she placed it in Dawie’s hand and closed his fingers around the handle.