The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The escort will know soon enough, if he doesn’t already.” “Are you sure? What’s happened?”

  Mansell felt himself drifting again. He stood up. Pacing helped. He explained in brief about his visit to the East Rand, and about the turn of events since his return. “This isn’t union business any more”

  “I know that.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In Kroonstad.”

  “I want you to get away from there, Delaney. . . “

  “They’re unloading the weapons.”

  Mansell hesitated. He perched on the edge of the chair, massaging his eyes, thinking. “You’re sure.”

  “The boxcar’s been dropped at a loading platform.”

  “They’ll use trucks from there.”

  “I’ve rented a car.”

  “Good, then. Get as far away from there as you can.”

  “Do you . . . know for sure?” she asked. “Do you have the proof you need?”

  “No. Not yet,” he admitted.

  Her voice softened. “I’m following those guns. I have to.” “You’re no good to my investigation dead.”

  “Is that your way of saying be careful?”

  “That’s my way of saying I’d like to see your incredible face again.”

  “I’ll settle for that,” she replied. “Where will you be?”

  Mansell hadn’t thought that far ahead. The light was dimming. He needed sleep. “I don’t know yet.”

  He heard Delaney stirring on the other end of the line. He heard the edge in her voice when she said, “I have to go. There’s a key to my place under the strawberry planter in the backyard. I’ll call there at ten tomorrow morning.”

  She broke the connection. Mansell stared at the receiver, eventually guiding it back to the cradle. He ordered himself to move, but the caverns behind his eyes were suddenly filled with darkness, and his chin, like a lead weight, fell upon his chest.

  ****

  In Johannesburg, a thousand kilometers away, another man in an equally deep slumber was wrenched awake by a telephone that possessed a ringing sound oddly like that of a warbler during mating season.

  He groped for the receiver, staring at it, calculating his response. “Montana,” he muttered.

  “Someone just made a play for Inspector Mansell on his own front porch, Mr. Montana,” the caller said.

  Blood drained from his face, but he managed to control the tone of his reply. “And?”

  “He’s alive. That much I’m sure of.”

  “Who? Do you have any idea?” He swung his legs onto the floor. His watch read 1:15 A.M.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Where’s Mansell now?”

  “Unless he’s stupid, which he isn’t, he won’t be hanging around his own place for long.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “It gets worse,” the caller continued. “Tomorrow morning a federal warrant will be issued for Mansell’s arrest.”

  “A federal warrant? On what charge?”

  “In connection with the murder of Steven de Villiers. His body was discovered this morning near Sheldon, off R32. Very dead.” My God, he thought. “Discovered by whom?”

  He heard a short, dull cackle. “Your guess is as good as mine, and probably the same as mine. I’ll know more in the morning.”

  ****

  Kroonstad was a nineteenth-century town bent on preserving itself against a rash of twentieth-century excess. An agricultural center, it was inhabited mostly by farmers, ranchers, and miners. The whites were furiously Afrikaner, the blacks underpaid, well fed, and contented. The Dutch Reformed Church, as always, continued to wield a strong hand here, and history, as always, continued to grip the architecture, the politics, and the people.

  The railroad station reminded Delaney of a sprawling Dutch farmhouse. Blunt windmills flanked the terminal on either end. Stone chimneys rose from the rooftop.

  The night was cool under thick clouds, thunderheads gliding in the wind like mercury and the same black-gray hue. The air smelled of rain and livestock.

  Rail workers had shunted the East Fields boxcar to a loading dock at the north end of the yard. Now, from a warehouse located behind the docks, sliding doors opened. Two four-ton forklifts motored toward the car. Beneath the glow of yellow floodlights, two empty tractor trailers maneuvered dockside. The drivers climbed out of the cabs, and the exchange of cargo began.

  From the balcony off the depot’s all-night lounge, Delaney studied Andrew Van der Merve as he huddled with one of the truck drivers. Beneath the power of the telephoto lens attached to her thirty-five-millimeter Minolta, the faces came to life. Van der Merve talked, gesturing with his hands and a black cigarette; the other man’s head bobbed in response. Delaney snapped four pictures.

  Then she took the stairs down to the main terminal. She found the stationmaster’s office next to the ticket counter. Inside, a stripling in dungarees and a skimmer greeted her with a sheepish grin. Delaney introduced herself, presenting identification and a radiant smile in return.

  “The boxcar on platform number sixteen. That is the mining equipment bound for the East Rand, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Righto,” he answered. “She’s been tagged with adjustor certificates issued in Cradock.”

  “Yes, I know.” Delaney offered the white lie with another, equally magnetic smile. The clerk blushed. “I seem to have lost my copy of the transaction, and, just for my records, I was hoping you could tell me if the adjustment was for a change of receivership or just a shipping transferal.”

  “Destination’s the same,” the boy beamed. “Sometimes it’s easier than goin’ all the way to Jo’burg, I guess.”

  “Easier for them. Just a lot of extra paperwork for us.” Delaney exchanged a knowing glance with the clerk. “By the way, could I ask a small favor?”

  “Just name it.”

  Delaney scribbled a message for Captain Smit explaining her departure and offering her thanks. She left the note with the clerk and went outside to the parking lot. She slipped behind the wheel of a Volkswagen Jetta.

  Across the frontage road from the train station was a Checker’s hamburger stand and a gas station. Delaney bought two large coffees and a bowl of chili. She parked at the corner of the station lot with a clear view of the loading docks. She ate the chili greedily, and then, resigned to a long wait, sipped at the coffee.

  An hour and twenty minutes later, Andrew Van der Merve and his drivers piled into the cabs of two Hinos. The trucks rolled out of the train yard onto the frontage road that connected with N1 Freeway. Delaney followed at a distance. Two kilometers further on, they exchanged N1 for the R34 highway. Traffic was sparse. Delaney settled in behind a beat-up Toyota, keeping sight of the trucks’ taillights a kilometer ahead.

  A light rain fell. Delaney cracked the wind-wings, hoping to stay alert. She searched the radio until she discovered a Johannesburg jazz station that was more static than music. In her imagination she composed brief fantasies about the guns and their purpose: ghost riders on horseback robbing a gold-laden stagecoach, mercenaries hijacking a diamond shipment out of Kimberley, vigilantes prowling the borders between Gondor and Mordor in search of ores and trolls. In the end, anxiety displaced imagination.

  The trucks sped through Liberty and circumvented the dim lights of Heilbron, where the Toyota turned off at a rest stop. When the trucks veered east into the hills, Delaney closed the gap. She lost sight of the trucks in a deep river valley and then again when the road swept around a steep escarpment.

  When the trucks reappeared at the crest of the next hill, Delaney saw brake lights. As they broached the peak, the trucks continued to slow. Delaney downshifted. At the base of the valley, she doused her lights. With mixed emotions, she urged the Jetta to the crest of the hill. Halfway down the other side, she saw stationary dots of red and plumes of exhaust. Her heart skipped a beat.

  The trucks had stopped.

>   ****

  Nigel Mansell was still sleeping in the rattan chair on his back porch when the phone in his lap rang. He reared up. The phone tumbled to the floor. The ringing ceased. He breathed a sigh of relief, wondering how long he’d been out. In time, he heard a distant voice, and only then did he realize that the receiver had disconnected from the cradle.

  He gathered up the phone, raised the receiver, and heard his name. “Mansell. Nigel Mansell. Are you there?”

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend. And you could use one just now.”

  “Fuck you.” Mansell slammed the receiver down.

  He stood up, gazing out the back window. The porch light washed a redwood deck and empty lawn chairs. The police never came, he thought. In the back of his mind he doused an indiscernible flicker of panic.

  The phone rang again. Without knowing why, he answered it again and heard the same voice say, “Thought one, Inspector. You’re due for arrest in the morning. Got that? A federal warrant. If you’re still alive. You’d be a little less conspicuous someplace other than your own house, don’t you think? And thought two. Remember your history lesson. The Caves. The Caves of the Womb.”

  ****

  Ten minutes passed.

  Delaney stepped out of the car. In a vain effort to suppress mounting anxiety, she gulped huge amounts of air. Cool rain sent shivers down her spine. She heard Mansell’s voice pounding in her head. “They’ll be looking for you now.. . . You’re no good to my investigation dead.”

  She circled the car, eyes glued to the highway. She searched the tarmac and the gulleys alongside. Scrub oak rustled in the rain; a prairie dog scampered up the bank into the woods; a coyote howled.

  Suddenly, the Hino engines turned over. The roar traveled across the valley like thunder. In seconds, the trucks were plunging down to the valley floor, across, and up the other side. Delaney scrambled into the driver’s seat. The Jetta sprang to life.

  She was a kilometer and a half back and crossing the valley floor when the trucks reached the summit of the next rise and disappeared. Caution intervened, and Delaney tapped her brakes. The Jetta struggled to the ridgetop.

  Only then did it become clear what had occurred.

  From here, the backside of the hill descended down a long, shallow bowl into a lush plateau dotted with farms and beehive huts. The plateau stretched for ten kilometers to the foot of the Drakensberg Mountains and the Liebenbergs Vlei River. Dim lights and coal fires shone from the town of Frankfort on the river’s far bank. Railroad tracks, running north and south, bisected the plateau, intersecting the highway a kilometer this side of the river.

  Off to her right, Delaney saw a powerful beacon, the headlight of an approaching coal train. She calculated its speed, in the same breath complimenting the smugglers on their ingenuity.

  The trucks were still a kilometer ahead. Delaney glanced at the speedometer, seventy k.p.h. She pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The Jetta leapt forward. The highway glistened with rain and oil.

  Red and green warning lights flashed at the train crossing. The train’s whistle echoed throughout the valley. Smoke belched from the chimneys of three old diesel locomotives. The whistle sounded again, shrill and cold. The trucks powered across the tracks. The Jetta was a half kilometer behind and closing.

  Delaney saw the crossroad arm descending slowly across the highway. She punched the gas one second, and a second later, jumped on the brakes with all her strength.

  The Jetta lurched, skidding violently. The rear end fishtailed, sending the car into a languishing tailspin. Delaney grappled with the steering wheel. She pumped the brakes. The earth shuddered as the train rumbled past. The car slid sideways, lurched again, and came to rest an arm’s length from the crossroads.

  Delaney clung to the steering wheel. Her heart slammed against the walls of her chest. Sweat pooled around her temples. Her breathing came in sharp, labored gasps. The hydraulic brakes of the train hissed time and lime again as it prepared for its stopover in Frankfort. Delaney glanced out at steel coal cars; aloof, unperturbed, immune.

  She covered her face and laughed. My God. Nausea raced through her system. Bile filled her mouth. The rumble of the train invaded the car.

  Delaney tried the engine a half dozen times and finally pumped it back to life. She backed the Jetta away from the tracks.

  Her legs shook as she climbed out, and her ankle throbbed. The train slowed to a crawl. Coal trains on the Great Plateau, Delaney remembered, resigned to the inevitable wait, were often three hundred and fifty cars long.

  The rain fizzled out. Broken clouds revealed a slender, pale moon. Delaney thought about Nigel Mansell.

  In time, her heart quieted. The quivering in her legs subsided. She retrieved a map and a flashlight from the glove compartment of the car. She laid the map across the front hood. There were a dozen routes leading from Frankfort to the East Rand, she realized, and all the photos and notes she’d taken until now wouldn’t be worth much if she didn’t confirm the final destination.

  With two tractor trailers, Delaney reasoned, they’d be looking for speed and directness without entanglements. The delay at the crossing had given them nine or ten minutes, at least. She glanced back at the train and the box-cut shadow of the caboose was now in sight.

  Directness, Delaney decided as she folded the map, was also her single ally now. The freeway gave access to two interchanges that led directly to the heart of the East Rand.

  She returned to the car. The caboose nudged forlornly past, and the barricade rose. She crossed the tracks. Fully awake, Delaney chose speed over prudence. Merging onto the freeway, she pushed the Jetta to a hundred and twenty-five k.p.h. Traffic was practically nonexistent.

  Fifteen minutes later, she exited N3 for another secondary highway, R43. The road was straight, flat, and freshly paved. When the highway skirted the city limits of Balfour, she cut her speed. Fifty kilometers to her left, Johannesburg emitted a luciferous glow. Directly ahead, the East Rand opened up before her.

  Another worry, Delaney thought as she glanced at the gas gauge. An eighth of a tank. In Balfour, she remembered, there had been a flashing Gas sign, but it was too late for that now. Her blouse clung to the back of the seatcover. Her hands were suddenly clammy on the steering wheel. She opened the window on the passenger side. “We’ll make it,” she whispered.

  In Devon, fate shone upon her. Delaney discovered an all-night self-service station. After setting the gas pump, she pored over the map again, facing a last decision. The R29 exchange out of Jo’burg led to several major mines; of these, the map indicated Maritime and AmAfrica, and the road to Delmas several others—Homestake and Highland Vaal among them. But East Fields was not included in this select group.

  When Delaney paid the station attendant, she asked the obvious question, but the attendant had never heard of the mine. It didn’t matter.

  As she was walking back to the car, the decision was made for her. Off to her right, two tractor trailers rolled slowly down R29 into town. Green cabs shimmered lemon and lime beneath yellow streetlamps. Entranced, Delaney watched as the trucks stopped for a red light at the intersection. Recovering, she ducked inside the Jetta and took the lens cap off the camera. The light changed, and she snapped two quick pictures.

  The convoy rumbled around the corner onto R50, headed for Delmas. Delaney took the last picture on the roll. She started the engine.

  ****

  The digital clock in the kitchen read 1:38 A. M.

  Nigel Mansell crept slowly through the house into his bedroom. He went straight to the walk-in closet, switched on the overhead light, and pushed aside the clothes hanging on the closet rod.

  He stared at the gun case. The Colt Detective Special was missing. Jennifer’s gun. Mansell had given it to her years ago, and they had spent several weekends on the department’s firing range familiarizing her with it. It hadn’t been used since, though Mansell had cleaned and oiled it a year or so ago. “I thought she’d f
orgotten about it,” he whispered. “She must have packed it.”

  He opened the case with the hide-a-key. Ignoring the Webley, he removed the 9-millimeter Browning HP, a Belgian gun, that had been a gift from the station house gang. He checked the chamber and the trigger mechanism; cleaned and oiled. He found the shoulder harness and cartridge magazines in a shoebox on the top shelf. He locked the case and closed the closet.

  Standing in the darkness of his bedroom, Mansell stripped off his rumpled sports coat. Gingerly, he removed the harness that held his .38 Police Special. He changed into fresh undergarments, a clean shirt, and gray denim pants. He put the .38 back over his shoulder before putting on a charcoal jacket. He packed a small duffel bag with a change of clothes. He left the bedroom carrying the harnessed Browning, an empty briefcase, two sets of keys, and the duffel bag.

  Mansell toured the house at a brisk pace. He switched on lights in the kitchen and pantry. In the bathroom, he washed down two codeine pills with water. He turned on the transistor radio to Jennifer’s classical station, left the light burning, and wedged a laundry hamper between the door and the threshold. He crossed to the living room, dropped the window shades, and turned on the television to a rerun of “The Lost City of the Kalahari.” He set the volume a little above normal.

  Mansell left the house through the garage, where his own Impala was parked. Outside, a night owl called out from a distant tree. Wind swept dead leaves across the pavement. He climbed openly into the police sedan and started the engine. Mansell drove the car around a dozen blocks and through as many alleys checking for tails.

  Satisfied that the gunman was done for the night, he returned to Northview Avenue. He parked six doors down from his own bungalow in front of the Clavers’ Tudor two-story. John Claver worked as a bond broker for Sherrill, Barnswell. He made R100,000 a year selling munis, corporate issues, and junk bonds. Traditionally, the Clavers spent July in Florida. They always left keys and instructions with their best neighbors, the Mansells, but the house was better protected by twenty-five hundred rand’s worth of burglar devices.

  Using a passkey and a code combination, Mansell shut down the alarm system to the garage. The door rose automatically. Parked inside was a Porsche 911 and an Audi 5000. Mansell drove the Audi down the drive into the street. He parked the police sedan in the garage. Then he maneuvered the Porsche into the driveway directly behind the sedan.