He stripped down to boxer shorts, selected the items he wanted to take with him, wrapped them in his sweaty T-shirt and bundled them into the lunch bag. The rest he would have to lose. This surplus was rolled into the knapsack, and disposed of during a second visit to the latrines. Then he waited for the clang of the iron bar on the hanging length of railway track.
It came as ever at half past six, still dark but with a hint of pink in the east. The duty guard, standing outside the village just beyond the chain-link double-gates of the farmland, was the source. All around Dexter the village began to come to life.
He avoided the run to the latrines and wash-troughs and hoped no one would notice. After twenty minutes, peering through a slit in the boards of the door, he saw that his alley was empty again. Chin down, sombrero tilted forward, he scurried to the latrines, one figure in sandals, pants and shirt among a thousand.
He crouched over an open hole while the others took their breakfast. Only when the third clang summoned the workers to the access gate did he join the queue.
The five checkers sat at their tables, examined the dog tags, checked the work manifests, punched the number into the records of those admitted that morning, and to which labour gang assigned, and waved the labourer through, to join his gang-master and be led away to collect tools and start the allocated tasks.
Dexter reached the table attending to his queue, offered his dog tag between forefinger and thumb, like the others, leaned forward and coughed. The checker pulled his face away sharply to one side, noted the tag number and waved him away. The last thing the man wanted was a face full of chilli odour. The new recruit shuffled off to draw his hoe; the assigned task was weeding the avocado groves.
At half past seven Kevin McBride breakfasted alone on the terrace. The grapefruit, eggs, toast and plum jam would have done credit to any five-star hotel. At eight fifteen the Serb joined him.
‘I think it would be wise for you to pack your grip,’ he said. ‘When you have seen what Major van Rensberg will show you, I hope you will agree this mercenary has a one per cent chance of getting here, even less of getting near me, and none of getting out again. There is no point in your staying. You may tell Mr Devereaux that I will complete my part of our arrangement, as agreed, at the end of the month.’
At eight thirty McBride threw his grip into the rear of the South African’s open jeep and climbed in beside the major.
‘So, what do you want to see?’ asked the Head of Security.
‘I am told it is virtually impossible for an unwanted visitor to get in here at all. Can you tell me why?’
‘Look, Mr McBride, when I designed all this I created two things. One, it is an almost completely self-sufficient farming paradise. Everything is here. Second, it is a fortress, a sanctuary, a refuge, safe from almost all outside invasion or threat.
‘Now, of course, if you are talking about a full military operation, paratroopers, armour, of course it could be invaded. But one mercenary, acting alone? Never.’
‘How about arrival by sea?’
‘Let me show you.’
Van Rensberg let in the clutch and they set off, leaving a plume of rising dust behind them. The South African pulled over and stopped near a cliff edge.
‘You can see from here,’ he said as they climbed out. ‘The whole estate is surrounded by sea, at no point less than twenty feet below the cliff top, in most areas fifty feet. Sea-scanning radar, disguised as TV dishes, warn us of anything approaching by sea.’
‘Interception?’
‘Two fast patrol boats, one at sea at all times. There is a one-mile limit of forbidden water round the whole peninsula. Only the occasional delivery freighter is allowed in.’
‘Underwater entry? Amphibious special forces?’
Van Rensberg snorted derisively.
‘A special force of one? Let me show you what would happen.’
He took his walkie-talkie, called the radio basement and was patched through to the slaughterhouse. The rendezvous was across the estate, near the derricks. McBride watched a bucket of offal go down the slide and drop to the sea thirty feet below.
For several seconds there was no reaction. Then the first scimitar fin sliced the surface. Within sixty seconds there was a feeding frenzy. Van Rensberg laughed.
‘We eat well here. Plenty of steak. My employer does not eat steak, but the guards do. Many of them, like me, are from the old country and we like our braai.’
‘So?’
‘When a beast is slaughtered, lamb, goat, pig, steer, about once a week, the fresh offal is thrown into the ocean. And the blood. That sea is alive with sharks. Blacktip, whitefin, tiger, giant hammerhead, they’re all there. Last month one of my men fell overboard. The boat swerved back to pick him up. They were there in thirty seconds. Too late.’
‘He didn’t come out of the water?’
‘Most of him did. But not his legs. He died two days later.’
‘Burial?’
‘Out there.’
‘So the sharks got him after all.’
‘No one makes mistakes around here. Not with Adriaan van Rensberg in charge.’
‘What about crossing the sierra, the way I came in yesterday?’
For answer van Rensberg handed McBride a pair of field glasses.
‘Have a look at it. You cannot climb round the edges of it. It’s sheer to the water. Come down the escarpment in daylight and you’ll be seen in seconds.’
‘But at night?’
‘So, you reach the bottom. Your man is outside the razor wire, over two miles from the mansion and outside the wall. He is not a peon, not a guard; he is quickly spotted and . . . taken care of.’
‘What about the stream I saw? Could one come in down the stream?’
‘Good thinking, Mr McBride. Let me show you the stream.’
Van Rensberg drove to the airfield, entered with his own bleeper for the chain-link gate and motored to where the stream from the hills ran under the runway. They dismounted. There was a long patch of water open to the sky between the runway and the fence. The clear water ran gently over grasses and weeds on the bottom.
‘See anything?’
‘Nope,’ said McBride.
‘They’re in the cool, in the shade, under the runway.’
It was clearly the South African’s party piece. He kept a small supply of beef jerky in the jeep. When he tossed a piece in, the water seethed. McBride saw the piranha sweep out of the shadow and the cigarette-pack-sized piece of beef was shredded by a myriad needle teeth.
‘Enough? I’ll show you how we husband the water supply here and never lose security. Come.’
Back in the farmland, van Rensberg followed the stream for most of its meandering course through the estate. At a dozen points, spurs had been taken off the main current to irrigate various crops or top up different storage ponds, but they were always blind alleys.
The main stream curved hither and yon, but eventually came back to the cliff edge near the runway but beyond the wire. There it increased in speed and rushed over the cliff into the sea.
‘Right near the edge I have a plate of spikes buried,’ said van Rensberg. ‘Anyone trying to swim through here will be taken by the current and swept along, out of control, between smooth walls of concrete, towards the sea. Passing over the spikes the helpless swimmer will enter the sea bleeding badly. Then what? Sharks, of course.’
‘But at night?’
‘Ah, you have not seen the dogs? A pack of twelve. Dobermanns and deadly. They are trained not to touch anyone in the uniform of the estate guards, and another dozen of the senior personnel no matter how dressed. It is a question of personal odour.
‘They are released at sundown. After that every peon and every stranger has to remain outside the wire or survive for a few minutes until the roaming dogs find him. After that there is no chance for him. So, this mercenary of yours. What is he going to do?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. If he’s got any sense, I gu
ess he’s gone by now.’
Van Rensberg laughed again.
‘Very sensible of him. You know, back in the old country, up in the Caprivi Strip, we had a camp for mundts who were causing a lot of trouble in the townships. I was in charge of it. And you know what, Mr CIA-man? I never lost a single kaffir. Not one. By which I mean, no escapers. Never.’
‘Impressive, I’m sure.’
‘And you know what I used? Landmines? No. Searchlights? No. Two concentric rings of chain-link fencing, buried six feet deep, razor-topped, and between the rings wild animals. Crocs in the ponds, lions in the grassland. One covered tunnel in and out. I love Mother Nature.’
He checked his watch.
‘Eleven o’clock. I’ll drive you up the track to our guardhouse in the gap in the hills. The San Martin police will send a jeep to meet you there and take you back to your hotel.’
They were motoring back across the estate from the coast to the gate giving access to the village and the climbing track when the major’s communicator crackled. He listened to the message from the duty telephone/radio operator in the cellar beneath the mansion. It pleased him. He switched off and pointed to the crest of the sierra.
‘Colonel Moreno’s men scoured the jungle this morning, from the road to the crest. They’ve found the American’s camp. Abandoned. You could be right. I think he’s seen enough and chickened out.’
In the distance McBride could see the great double-gate and beyond it the white of the buildings of the worker village.
‘Tell me about the labourers, major.’
‘What about them?’
‘How many? How do you get them?’
‘About twelve hundred. They are all offenders: within San Martin’s penal system. Now, don’t get holier-than-thou, Mr McBride. You Americans have prison farms. So this is a prison farm. Considering all things they live pretty well here.’
‘And if they have served their sentences, when do they go back home?’
‘They don’t,’ said van Rensberg.
A one-way ticket, thought the American, courtesy of Colonel Moreno and Major van Rensberg. A life sentence. For what offences? Jay-walking? Litter? Moreno would have to keep the numbers up. On demand.
‘What about guards and mansion staff?’
‘That’s different. We are employed. Everyone needed inside the mansion wall lives there. Everybody stays inside when our employer is in residence. Only uniformed guards and a few senior staff like me can pass through the wall. Never a peon. Pool cleaners, gardeners, waiters, maids – all live inside the wall. The peons who labour on the estate, they live in their township. They are all single men.’
‘No women, no children?’
‘None. They are not here to breed. But there is a church. The priest preaches one text only – absolute obedience.’
He forbore to mention that for lack of obedience he retained the use of his rhino-hide sjambok whip as in the old days.
‘Could a stranger come into the estate posing as part of the workforce, major?’
‘No. Every evening the workforce for the next day is selected by the estate manager who goes to the village. Those selected walk to the main gate and report at sunrise, after breakfast. They are checked through one by one. So many desired, so many admitted. Not a single one more.’
‘How many come through?’
‘About a thousand a day. Two hundred with some technical skill for the repair shops, mill, bakery, slaughterhouse, tractor shed; eight hundred for hacking and weeding. About two hundred remain behind each day. The genuinely sick, garbage crews, cooks.’
‘I think I believe you,’ said McBride. ‘This loner doesn’t have a chance, does he?’
‘Told you so, Mr CIA-man. He’s chickened out.’
He had hardly finished when the communicator crackled again. His brow furrowed as he listened to the report.
‘What kind of flap? Well, tell him to calm down. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
He replaced the set.
‘Father Vicente, at the church. In some kind of a panic. I’ll have to drive by on our way to the mountains. A delay of a few minutes no doubt.’
On their left they passed a row of peons, aching backs bent over mattocks and hoes in the raging heat. Some heads lifted briefly to watch the passing vehicle bearing the man who had power of life and death over them. Gaunt, stubbled faces, coffee-brown eyes under straw brims. But one pair of eyes was blue.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Bluff
He was hopping up and down at the top of the church steps by the open door, a short tubby man with porcine eyes and a none-too-clean white soutane. Father Vicente, pastoral shepherd of the wretched forced labourers.
Van Rensberg’s Spanish was extremely basic and habitually only expressed abrupt commands; that of the priest attempting English was not much better.
‘Come queek, coronel,’ he said and darted back inside. The two men dismounted, ran up the steps and followed him.
The soiled cassock swept down the aisle, past the altar and on to the vestry. It was a tiny room, its main feature a wall cupboard of basic carpentry, assembled and screwed to the wall to contain his vestments. With a theatrical gesture he threw the door open and cried: ‘Mira.’
They looked. The peon was still exactly as Father Vicente had found him. No attempt had been made to release him. His wrists were firmly bound with tape in front of him; his ankles the same; a broad band of tape covered his mouth, from behind which came protesting mumbles. Seeing van Rensberg, his eyes indicated that he was terrified.
The South African leaned forward and tore away the gag without ceremony.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’
There was a babble of terrified explanation from the man, and an expressive shrug from the priest.
‘He says he not know. He says he go to sleep last night, he wake up in here. He has headache, he remember nothing more.’
The man was naked but for a pair of skimpy shorts. There was nothing for the South African to grab but the man’s upper arms, so he seized these and brought the peon to his feet.
‘Tell him he’d better start remembering,’ he shouted at the priest, who translated.
‘Major,’ said McBride quietly, ‘first things first. What about a name?’
Father Vicente caught the sense.
‘He is called Ramon.’
‘Ramon what?’
The priest shrugged. He had over a thousand parishioners; was he supposed to remember them all?
‘Which cabin does he come from?’ asked the American.
There was another rapid interchange of local Spanish. McBride could decipher written Spanish slowly, but the local San Martin patois was nothing like Castilian.
‘It is three hundred metres from here,’ said the priest.
‘Shall we go and look?’ said McBride. He produced a penknife and cut the tape from Ramon’s wrists and ankles. The intimidated worker led the major and the American across the plaza, down the main street and thence to his alley. He pointed to his door and stood back.
Van Rensberg went in, followed by McBride. There was nothing to find, save one small item which the American discovered under the bed. It was a pad of compressed cotton wool. He sniffed it and handed it to the major, who did the same.
‘Chloroform,’ said McBride. ‘He was knocked out in his sleep. Probably never felt a thing. Woke up bound hand and foot, locked in a cupboard. He’s not lying, just bewildered and terrified.’
‘So what the hell was that for?’
‘Didn’t you mention dog tags on each man, checked when they went through the gate to work?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Ramon isn’t wearing one. And it’s not here on the floor. Somewhere in there I think you have a ringer.’
It sank in. Van Rensberg strode back to the Land Rover in the square and unhooked the walkie-talkie on the dash.
‘This is an emergency,’ he told the radio operator who answered. ‘Sound th
e “escaped prisoner” siren. Seal the gate of the mansion to everyone except me. Then use the PA to tell every guard on the estate, on or off duty, to report to me at the main gate.’
Seconds later the long, wailing sound of the siren rolled over the peninsula. It was heard in field and barn, shed and orchard, kitchen garden and pigsty.
Everyone out there raised their head from what they were doing to stare towards the main gate. When their undivided attention had been secured, the voice of the radio operator in the basement beneath the mansion was heard.
‘All guards to main gate. Repeat, all guards to main gate. On the double.’
There were over sixty on day shift and the rest on lay-over in their barracks. From the fields, riding quad-bikes from the farthest reaches, jogging on foot from the barracks a quarter of a mile from the main gate, they converged in response to the emergency.
Van Rensberg took his off-road back through the gate and waited for them, standing on the bonnet, bullhorn in hand.
‘We don’t have an escape,’ he told them when they stood in front of him. ‘We have the reverse. We have an intruder. Now, he’s masquerading as a labourer. Same clothes, same sandals, same sombrero. He’s even got a stolen dog tag. Day shift: round up and bring in every single labourer. No exceptions. Off-duty shift, search every barn, cowshed, stable, workshop. Then seal and mount guard. Use your communicators to stay in touch with squad commanders. Junior leaders, stay in touch with me. Now get to it. Anyone in prisoner uniform seen running away, shoot on sight. Now go.’
The hundred men began to fan out over the estate. They had the mid-section to cover: from the chain-link fence separating the village and airfield from the farmland, up to the mansion wall. A big territory; too big even for a hundred men. And it would take hours.
Van Rensberg had forgotten that McBride was leaving. He ignored the American, busy with his own planning. McBride sat and puzzled.
There was a notice by the church, right next to the door. It said: ‘Obsequias por nuestro hermano Pedro Hernandez. Once de la mañana.’
Even with his laboured Spanish, the CIA man could work out that meant: ‘Funeral service for our brother Pedro Hernandez. Eleven in the morning.’
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