He particularly missed his older sister, Mengzu. She was two years older than him and his parents were lucky enough to live in a rural region where the one child policy was laxer than the more urban areas, allowing a second child when the first one was a female.
Lu Feng had not actually spoken to any members of his family for over six years. He did write every three to six months. Letters painstakingly drawn with poor hand and containing little news due to the draconian Chinese system of censorship.
They would reply with a letter that had obviously been prepared by a professional scribe with flowing hand and full of praise and stilted honorifics.
He waited all day until the sun sank behind the horizon in a solar display of reds and purples and golds. No one arrived. It was the first meeting that the Ukrainians had ever missed.
The sergeant decided to book into the only hotel in the town, leaving his men to sleep rough under or around the APC.
The next day he waited until midday and then decided that he would have to call a no show and head back to Harare. He was not looking forward to telling the colonel. He knew that the colonel would lose it, scream and shout and rant. He would blame Lu Feng. Just as he blamed him for everything from the heat to the rain to the fucking flies.
The master sergeant sighed. Once again he wished that he were home again - looking at the Huangshan Mountains, talking to his older sister, eating proper food instead of inelegant lumps of meat and porridge.
And not being blamed for every single thing that went wrong.
Chapter 23
Garrett and Petrus stood next to Malusi's grave.
Petrus had told his brother what had transpired so far. He had also asked if Malusi remembered Garrett and explained that the soldier was helping.
The Zulu sent for beer and the two friends sat down next to the grave. They drank. They smoked.
They spoke.
For the first time, Petrus asked Garrett for details about his home life. Who exactly he worked for, where he lived. Did he have cattle?
'I live in the Scottish Highlands,' said Garrett. 'On a farm owned by The Much Honoured, The Laird of Halgowan.'
'Laird?'
'Like a chief,' explained Garrett. 'A landowner of great consequence. I have known him since I was a child. After my parents died, when I was young, he took me in. Paid for my boarding school. Gave me a place to stay after…' Garrett paused for thought. 'Well…after,' he concluded.
'I see,' nodded Petrus. 'So, does he have many Impi?'
Garrett shook his head. 'No. He has about fifty staff. No impi.'
'Just you?'
Garrett nodded. 'Just me.'
'Well then he is adequately protected,' admitted Petrus. 'Much cattle?'
Garrett nodded. 'Much cattle. Big, fat, plentiful. It is a gentle land. Very green. It rains much of the time. In the winter it snows.'
'I have seen snow,' said Petrus. 'High in the mountains in Lesotho. I did not like it.' He lit another cigarette. 'So, do the other tribes try to steal your cattle?'
'No,' said Garrett. 'Once we had a little trouble with poachers but I sorted that out.'
'You killed them?'
Garrett laughed. 'You can't simply kill people there. It's different to here. They would call that murder and they take that very seriously.'
'Here as well,' said Petrus. 'But you just hide the bodies. No problem.'
'Can't do that in Scotland,' said Garrett. 'If they suspect a murder they put one hundred, maybe two hundred police onto it. And they stay on the case until they solve it.'
Petrus raised an eyebrow. 'You don't say?' He shook his head. 'I have a friend who used to work wit the Durban CID. Detective. Sometimes he used to have over three hundred murder dockets open at the same time. They had to declare a cold case after a few days. Solve it or move on before you get buried in murder cases.' The Zulu thought for a while. Contemplating what it would be like to live with such lawfulness. He decided that he wouldn't enjoy it much.
'Tell me then, Garrett,' he continued. 'In this gentle place - is there racism?'
'Yes,' admitted the soldier.
'Why?' Asked Petrus. 'Was there apartheid?'
'No.'
'So why the racism?'
'I don't know why, I really don't. You get stupid people everywhere.'
Petrus cocked his head to one side. 'I don't mind racism. I don't like most people. Most races. It is hard being a Zulu - we are so superior to everybody else that racism seems to be a natural default setting.'
The two of them sat in silence for a while and then Garrett burst out laughing.
Petrus joined in. They laughed for ages. An outlet of emotion. A catharsis.
Their mirth was interrupted by one of the tribal elder. He handed Petrus an envelope. Petrus thanked him and he left.
'When this is all over, if we are still amongst the living,' said Petrus. I would like to come to this Scotland of yours. Pay tribute to your chief. Drink beer and see some more snow.'
That would be good,' said Garrett. 'That would be very good.'
Petrus took the contents of the envelope out. It was a used South African passport. He flicked it open. Inside was a picture of Garrett. They had decided that it would be more prudent to organise Garret a South African passport, rather than apply for a visa to get into Zimbabwe. So Petrus' father had simply ordered one of his subjects to volunteer up his passport and then his photo was changed for one of Garrett.
So now Garrett had a genuine passport in the name of Dingane Zondi.
Petrus handed it to the soldier. Garrett looked at it with some scepticism. 'Dingane Zondi. Really?'
'It's just a name,' said Petrus.
'What's in a name,' quoted Garrett. 'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'
'Yeah, whatever,' countered Petrus. 'Just say that your father was a Zulu.'
The next morning they loaded the pick up with food and water and a change of clothes and started their drive to Zimbabwe.
They carried no weapons bar the assegai and the machete. The plan was to source weapons once they were in country and Petrus had an address that would need to visit to do so. They also took another thick wad of US Dollars.
They hit the blacktop highway at the same time that the sun rose, bathing the land with an urgent red and orange glow. A heart of fire transfusing the land with it's own blood.
Garrett kept the pick up at ten miles over the speed limit and it ate up the miles with ease. They stopped for gas at midday and then continued on with Petrus behind the wheel. The miles spooled by as they left KwaZulu and entered the Free State, South Africa's equivalent of the Midwest. Mile after mile of flat land filled with corn and grain broken only by the odd massive concrete grain silo.
'You know,' said Petrus. 'Back in the days of Apartheid, Indian were not allowed to stay overnight in the Free State. Transit only.'
'Why?' Asked Garrett.
'Who knows? A lot of weird laws back then,' Petrus stared out of the window for a while as the miles of nothing continued to reel past. 'Not much of a hardship,' he said. 'I mean, who the fuck would want to live here anyway?'
Half an hour later they drove past a town called Bethlehem.
'Check it out,' said Petrus. 'Just like the bible. Accept no wise men. Lots of virgins though.'
Garrett chuckled.
That night they stayed at the Ingwe Motel close to the border between South Africa and Zimbabwe. Garrett had stayed in prisons that had been more comfortable. And cleaner. So he had no argument when Petrus insisted that they rise at four thirty that morning so as to get an early start at the border. They arrived at half past six and there was already a queue that promised to take anywhere between five to seven hours to be processed.
However, Petrus parked the pick up on the side of the road and walked to the customs office with a case of whisky and a small sheaf of US Dollars.
Two hours later they were escorted through the border post by a captain who was now ri
cher both in dollars and alcoholic beverages.
The two friends drove to the town of Beit Bridge and set about gaining some intel by the simple and straight forward method of approaching people in the street, offering them some money and then asking questions. It was a small town, and the fact that Petrus was offering fifty-dollar notes to people in a country where the average daily income was less than six dollars, all combined to provide a wealth of detailed information.
In fact in less than an hour there was a substantial queue of people standing outside Petrus' and Garrett's pick up waiting to tell all that they knew. Petrus walked down the queue and, using a method based primarily on age and sex, reduced it to four people. All male, all aged thirty to forty.
'Why these guys?' Asked Garrett.
'Young kids are pointless, answered Petrus. They don't really know the subtleties of what's going on. Old people are often lonely so they want to talk more. They'll waste out time.'
'And women?'
'I can't threaten a woman if I don't believe her,' said Petrus. 'So. Men, middle aged, probably have families to support, more likely to tell you something that they shouldn't because they're more desperate for the money.'
Garrett nodded. 'I there I was thinking that it was just good old fashioned sexism and ageism.'
Petrus looked offended. He called up the first person and asked if they knew of the Russians, colonel Jin Chnag an his sergeant Lu Feng.
It so happened that everybody seemed to know of all three parties. For some reason the locals called colonel Jin Chnag, The General and they called sergeant Lu Feng, The Captain. But aside from their inadvertent promotional practises it was obvious that they were talking about the same people' The Ukrainians were simple known as, the foreigners or the Russians.
It was the forth man who offered up a batch of additional information.
' The captain is a nice man,' he said. 'But the general is a big prick, he looks on us as though we are less than dogs. Sometimes they come together, but normally only the captain comes. They always come with a truck of soldiers and sometimes two trucks. Smart soldiers not like the Zimbabwe soldiers.'
'Chinese soldiers?' Asked Petrus.
'Yes,' said the informer. 'Dark camouflage, a round cap with a sword and lightening.'
Garrett looked up. 'Do they have a red flag above the patch?'
The man thought for a few seconds and then nodded.
'Oh shit,' exclaimed Garrett. 'Those are Nanjing Flying Tiger Special Forces troops. Bad bastards all. No one in their right mind wants to fuck with those guys.'
Petrus laughed. 'It's just as well that we're not in our right minds then,' he quipped.
But Garret didn't join in with his friend's laughter as he wondered just how far they could keep pushing their luck. When would it run out with fatal consequences for the both of them?
Still chuckling, Petrus paid off the informer and the two of them climbed into the car, ready to travel to Harare.
Chapter 24
They booked into the Crowne Plaza Monomatapa Hotel. A three star hotel in Park Lane Harare. It was clean and cheap.
The next morning they woke and ate a breakfast of gargantuan proportions. Eggs, bacon, steak, lamb chops, liver, fries, toast and coffee. A feast of plenty in a country where over half of the population were literally starving to death.
After the meal they drove to the suburb of Avondale to meet with their contact at his house.
When they arrived at the house the front gate was already open and there was a water truck parked in the driveway. Attached to the truck was a hose that led to a large PVC tank. This was because, even though hundreds of millions of dollars had been borrowed form the World Bank to upgrade the water supplies to the people of Zimbabwe, no money had actually been spent on any water projects and so potable water was now a luxury as opposed to a basic human right. For those who could afford it, water deliveries were the only way to go.
Garrett and Petrus waited until the delivery had been committed and the truck left, then they drove in and parked while the automatic gate closed behind them.
Their contact was a Greek man, Roddy Dukakis, who had been born in Athens but had immigrated to Zimbabwe in the seventies when it was still known as Rhodesia. He had been a member of the Rhodesian army, not as a combat soldier but as a sergeant in the quarter master division.
At the end of the war, when the Rhodesian army was disbanded, he had taken advantage of the chaos and literally stolen truck loads of weapons, ammunition, generators, uniforms, tents and food rations. Initially he had done a great trade to local warlords as well as mercenaries both local and up through Africa, But, as time went on and his equipment became more and more outdated, his business fell off. And now only the most desperate used him.
Garrett and Petrus were firmly in the most desperate camp.
After the usual greeting and small talk, including a tiny cup of the strongest coffee that Garrett had ever tasted, Roddy led them to his strong room. They went through a false door concealed behind his refrigerator, down into his basement.
Inside there was a treasure trove of outdated, but still useable, weapons dating from the sixties and seventies.
Petrus waved Garrett forward, relying on the soldier's expertise to make the best of a fairly limited choice.
It didn't take Garrett long before he had a pile of arms and munitions on the central wooden table.
Two by FN FAL Belgian assault rifles, circa 1965 complete with wooden furniture and 7.62mm twenty round steel magazines. Weighing in at twelve pounds when fully loaded as opposed to the M16 that weighs in at only 7 pounds.
A Bren Mk 4 chambered for the 7.62mm round. Thirty round magazines and a whopping thirty pounds in weight.
A Couple of Browning High Power's in 9 x 19mm parabellum with thirteen round box magazines.
A box of twenty x M26 fragmentation grenades
Ten M18 Claymore mines - little three pound packages of death. Each filled with 680 grams of C4 explosive packed around seven hundred steel balls. Deadly up to a range of two hundred and fifty yards.
Then Petrus spotted an old M20 Superbazooka. A sixty-inch aluminium tube capable of firing a ten-pound high explosive projectile for a distance in excess of 1000 yards.
'I want that,' said the Zulu, attracted, as per usual, by the sheer size of the weapon. 'And I'm going to stick it right up colonel Chang's ass and pull the trigger.'
Garrett placed it on the table along with five high explosive bombs for same.
Finally, a case of sixteen blocks of C4 explosive complete with a selection of pencil detonators in different times, extra magazines for all of the weapons and two thousand rounds of ammunition.
Roddy looked at the haul. 'Ten thousand dollars American,' he said.
Garrett shook his head. 'No way, man. This is museum stuff. We'll give you five.'
Roddy grabbed at his chest like he was having a heart attack. 'No, no, no,' he gasped. 'These are good weapons. The best. Eight thousand.'
'Six thousand,' countered Garrett.
'Seven thousand five hundred,' stated Roddy. 'And that is it. No negations. Already you have stolen money from the mouths of my children.'
'You don't have kids,' said Petrus.
Roddy shrugged. 'Figuratively speaking. Itell you what, I'll throw in that old WWII Mk5 antitank mine.'
Garrett nodded and put his hand out. They shook and Petrus counted out the cash.
Then they carried the lot up the stairs and loaded it into the false bottom of the pick up.
Roddy watched the two men leave and, as they did so, he let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't quite realised, up until that point, how nervous the two men had made him feel. It was like being locked in a room with two pit bulls and a piece of steak. You knew that you would be fine for a while. But as soon as the steak had been consumed knew that you would be the next thing on the menu.
He closed the door behind him and went to make himself another coffee.
As it p
ercolated he sat and thought. He had heard the Zulu mention colonel Chang. Roddy knew the colonel. Everybody knew the colonel. He also could not stand the colonel. Then again, no one could stand the colonel.
But there was no denying that Jin Chang was the seat of power in the region. A corrupt man short on morality and big on influence. And he would not stand a double cross of any sort. In fact, if word ever got out that Roddy had supplied the men that went after Jin Chang then the Greek could kiss his slightly-better-than-mediocre life goodbye.
And it would be a long and painful departure indeed.
He decided to finish his coffee and then he would phone the colonel. Make sure that he was on his good side.
Chapter 25
Stas arrived at the Harare International airport early Wednesday morning. He joined the crew at the taxi rank, took one straight to the Chinese embassy and asked for colonel Jin Chang.
The receptionist told him to wait in the atrium.
Five hours later he was still waiting.
Eventually sergeant Feng arrived. He did not speak to Stas, he merely beckoned for him to follow. They walked out of the building and got into a black Mercedes S500. Lu Feng drove and Stas sat in the passenger seat.
Although he tried to draw the sergeant onto a conversation Lu Feng did not react and they spent the entire trip in silence.
They pulled up at a pair of electric gates that barred access to a magnificent mansion in Borrowdale, one of the more up market suburbs of Harare. Feng used a remote control to buzz the gates open and they crunched up the long, gravel driveway.
The sergeant led Stas through the house to the colonel's study.
The colonel was standing behind his desk, his body stiff with controlled rage. 'Why did you go to the embassy, you stupid fuck?' He asked.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 53
