by Mark Graham
“How thoughtful.”
“Now, please. Where is he?”
“He left a message on my secretary’s answering machine at the office,” Delaney heard herself say. She’d anticipated the lie all along, but not the mettle it took to convey it. “Mansell didn’t say where he was, but he did say he was on his way back to Port Elizabeth.”
“Did he say when?”
“Sunday night.” This time the fabrication came easier. She needed time alone with Mansell. A day couldn’t matter. “We’re to meet as soon as he gets to town.”
“Good girl. Excellent. Where? At your home?”
“I doubt it. He said he’d call the minute he arrives, but he’s being extremely cautious, Cecil.”
“We should expect that. And we should expect him to use any means necessary to accomplish his ends, Delaney. Please be careful.” Leistner’s tone hardened almost immeasurably when he added, “I’ll expect a call from you the moment you hear from the inspector on Sunday.”
****
The town of Carnarvon, though abutting the rugged Kareeberge mountain range on the north, was embraced on three sides by endless acres of farms, ranchland, and desert. It took a special breed of craziness, Mansell thought, to try to draw life from the Karoo. But for those who did, dry crops like wheat and mealie predominated. For those less bent on masochism, sheep and cattle provided meager livelihoods.
Anson Schwedler, a logical masochist, had chosen both courses.
Mansell followed a gravel road thirty-eight kilometers out of town until he happened upon Trinity Road. The younger Schwedler owned 620 acres here. Half he devoted to wheat, the remainder to sheep.
Trinity Road led to a three-story farmhouse, white with blue trim, with a full-length porch and a tire swing dangling from the branch of a huge elm. Chickens wandered aimlessly about pecking at seeds and complaining. A sheep dog slept on the steps. Out back stood a Dutch-style barn and a red brick silo.
Despite a chilly breeze, five boys were playing soccer on the front lawn, but they stopped in midstride when the Audi appeared. The chickens scattered. The sheep dog barked. Four of the boys gathered around to admire the bronze finish of the 5000. The youngest, a stout, freckled lad with a crew cut and faded dungarees, held the soccer ball at his side and stared at the stranger dressed in a sports jacket and tie.
“Your daddy around this morning?”
“In the house,” the boy answered, motioning with his arm. “I’ll fetch him for ya.”
Mansell followed him to the front porch. The chickens ignored him. The dog sniffed his pant legs, and a moment later the father appeared. No mistaking it: stocky, boyish. He wore dungarees and a plaid shirt. Smoke rose from the carved churchwarden clamped tight between his lips.
“We’ve been expecting you,” he said, offering a meaty hand. “I’m Anson Schwedler. Come on in.”
Schwedler led Mansell through a narrow entryway made narrower by two antique half trees, into a living room dimly lit behind lace curtains. The room was homey and cluttered. An antique tabouret in one corner, an oval china closet filled with English porcelain in another. A mahogany library case against one wall, a pressed chiffonier against the other. A small fire burned within a granite fireplace, and sitting on a velour davenport facing the blaze was an old man.
“This is my papa, Jaap Schwedler,” Anson said. The older man stuck out a hand. Mansell felt the rigid bones of age and the thrifty grip of the tired. He had to remind himself that Jaap Schwedler was of the same vintage as Cecil Leistner and Lloyd Chesney. The years hadn’t been as kind. “The womenfolk have gone off shopping someplace, so Dad and I are having a bit of an eye-opener. join us.”
“Thanks. I will,” said Mansell reluctantly. He sat down in a spindled rocker adjacent to the davenport.
“So you’ve come about the minister, have you?” said Jaap. “Funny, no one ever has before. Old Lloyd Chesney called up to prepare me. See, everyone thinks I came back from the big shoot-out a little tipped.”
Anson the younger chuckled. He poured straight vodka into a shot glass. Mansell explained his assignment.
Then he said, “You were in Korea with Minister Leistner.”
“A bombardier in the Number Two Squadron, that’s right,” the elder answered. “We went down together and lost each other in the process.”
Mansell studied the old man, who studied the fire, and asked, “Where were you shot down, Mr. Schwedler?”
“We were there almost from the beginning,” Jaap answered instead. “Protectors of the Republic of Korea. Except the ROK buildup was a farce. Yeah, they had fifty thousand men hanging around the thirty-eighth parallel toting American rifles. Sure. Fifty thousand farmers who just wanted to go home to their families and their rice paddies. War? Shit. But the Chinks and the Russkies, now they’d built up the Korean People’s Army in the north with seven or eight infantry divisions, a couple of armored brigades, and about ten thousand independent advisers. That’s what they called the Russian and Chinese bastards who ran the whole show.
“Hell, they blew down the Uijongbu corridor like shit runnin’ through a goose. Took Seoul by the end of the first day. By nightfall they’d advanced twenty kilometers inside the parallel from one end of the front to the other. Ten thousand dead, another thirty thousand instant refugees. Kids without dads, wives without husbands. Straw houses and farms that disappeared in a puff of black smoke.”
Jaap Schwedler paused, his face red from exertion. He drank vodka in stingy sips, coughing and sucking air.
But his voice was strong when he started up again. “The U. S. and the dumb-fuck ROK got caught with their pants down around their knees. They sure enough did. And we all paid the price. Amazing, it was. No one could believe that Mao and Stalin might have an agreement, even though Mao was holed up in Moscow swizzling peppered vodka and stuffing his face with caviar.
“The guns, the artillery, the tanks—all Russian. The Chinks, well they provided the waves and the Russkies the brains. By the spring of ‘50 every key position in the Korean People’s Army was held by a Russian, and the slant-eyes—”
“Dad!”
“Oh, sorry. Chinks, slant-eyes, what’s the difference? Anyway, it was a helluva way to run a police action, I’ll tell you that much, Inspector. It was hit-and-run those first months. The Number Two . . . we were part of the Eighteenth Bomber wing. Well, we ran raids up and down the coast of the Sea of Japan for two months. The KPA had a full division pushing down along the Taebaek Sanmaek Mountains. The bastards had anti-aircraft guns by the hundreds and rocket launchers and . . .
“They shot us down near Kumgang in the mountains. Two planes. Five of us made the ground. Captain Crooker and Fourie, they made a run for it. Lucky bastards were mowed down clean as a whistle. They took the three of us to a prison everyone called Magic Mountain. They snipped off Chaney du Plessis’ little finger that first day with trimming shears. They pulled out two of my teeth with pliers when I couldn’t tell them the strength of the Eighteenth Bomber group. Me and Chaney were separated for a while, and neither of us ever saw Cecil again after that first day.”
“Where was the minister taken, do you know?”
“You came all this way to ask me that?” snapped the old man. He glared at Mansell and then looked back at the fire. “Why the blazes don’t you ask the high and mighty man himself?”
Mansell leaned forward. He stroked his chin and in a low voice said, “Frankly, Mr. Schwedler, the minister isn’t prepared to say. He has long spaces where there is . . . no memory. The obvious explanation might be drug-induced interrogation. Something like that. Do you, by chance, have any idea?”
Jaap Schwedler snorted. He sounded pleased. “We heard he was taken to Anbyon or Wonsan,” answered the veteran. “We heard he’d agreed to cooperate. We heard he was eating fresh chicken and vegetables every day and drinking wine every night. They told us we’d get the same treatment if we’d cooperate, like Cecil. Ever eaten rat meat, Inspector? Rat meat cooked in a rus
ted tin can over a fire made from pieces of your own shirt?”
“Dad, for crying out loud!” exclaimed the son.
The elder Schwedler seemed unfazed. “We ate cracked corn and millet once a day. On good days we’d have soya beans. Rats, they were a luxury. I watched five hundred men die that winter,” he said, lifting a pipe from the ashtray. “And they said we were lucky, you know that? Everyone said that we were the luckiest bastards in Korea.”
“Lucky?” asked Mansell. “Why was that, Mr. Schwedler?”
Ancient rheumy eyes peered back at him. Jaap Schwedler said, “See, we were captured in a Russian-occupied sector of North Korea, Inspector. Fifteen kilometers further west and we’d a been in a Chinese sector. See, rumor had it that the Chinese forbade their prisoners from killing any rats. Rumor had it that the Chinese served their prisoners to the rats.”
The clerk at the registration desk of the Kareeberge Lodge handed Mansell a note as he prepared to pay his bill.
The note was from Joshua. It read, “The developed film is in the dresser, top drawer. I’m heading back to Port Elizabeth. I have a witness that needs talking to. Thanks for the bed and the booze. Ciao. Deacon Blue.”
The film was there, in the top drawer, just as Joshua said it would be. Mansell thumbed through the prints, impressed by the quality of Delaney’s photography, but unable to muster the proper enthusiasm. As evidence, Mansell thought, the photos could be easily refuted. It could be argued that the initial sequence showing the M1191 A 1 pistols and the M16 rifles in the storage shed at the harbor had been staged, a fabrication of their own devising. It was a foolish mistake; he and Delaney were the only witnesses. And the sequence following the crates from Port Elizabeth to Kroonstad? A good defense lawyer would have a field day with that one. The truck caravan from Kroonstad to East Fields proved only that 253 crates had been transferred from a boxcar to two tractor trailers. How could it be proved that those same crates contained pistols and rifles and not pneumatic drills and pickaxes? he asked himself. Answer: it couldn’t.
Mansell left his key in the room. With his briefcase in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, he walked down the corridor to the exit at the rear of the building. He climbed down the back stairs to the underground parking garage.
His footsteps echoed on iron stairs that led to the second level. The metal door that led into the garage squealed like a fox caught in a bear trap. Concrete radiated a permanent cool, like the catacombs of ancient Rome. The air smelled of machine oil and exhaust fumes.
A generator kicked on overhead. Escaping steam hissed. Water pipes shuddered.
Mansell glanced cautiously over his shoulder. He paused, peering the length of the garage in both directions.
Concrete cylinder supports, sporadically placed, stood guard over a sparse array of lonely automobiles. Fords, Chevys, Toyotas. A gold Mercedes-Benz, a white Cadillac, a silver BMW. White paint formed symmetrical parking spaces. Steel girders formed a prison wall overhead. Bare sixty-watt bulbs sprinkled insufficient light and formed pockets of dark shadows. There were no attendants.
Capital letters had been painted on each support, a reminder to forgetful motorists. Row C was at the far end of the garage. Fifty meters away, Mansell saw the Audi. Dreading the drive home, he stopped to light a cigarette. The matchbook was empty. He set down the duffel bag, unzipped the side pocket, and dug out a lighter. Smoke invaded his lungs. He thought of Delaney and the fragrance of her bedroom. He touched the handle on the Browning. Half assured, he hoisted the bag again.
Twenty-five meters from the car, he heard footsteps. Where? Up ahead? No. He glanced to his left and then to the rear. He lengthened his stride.
Directly ahead, Joshua Brungle stepped from behind a concrete pillar. He held a service pistol in both hands. Mansell froze. He recognized the blunt cylinder on the end, a silencer. Joshua spread his legs. He raised the gun, arms extended. His handsome face was calm, ghostlike.
“Joshua.” The duffel bag dropped from Mansell’s hand to the floor, a dull thud. “Joshua, no!”
The cry stuck in Mansell’s throat. He saw an orange flash at the end of the barrel. He heard the muffled pop of the bullet leaving the chamber, braced himself, and then stumbled. At first, there was no pain. A clean hit, he thought. Bad sign. The groan in his ear seemed to come from a distant source. He heard a clatter, like iron hitting concrete. He saw Joshua darting forward, gun poised.
But Joshua didn’t stop. He skirted past, eyes feverish with concentration, and, at last, Mansell understood. The groan. The absence of pain. The clatter. He turned. Twenty meters behind, curled in a ball at the rear end of an Impala, lay a body, blood pooling about the head. Joshua hunched over it. Mansell broke into a run.
The eyes were opened wide with surprise. The mouth agape. Blood dripped from the bullet hole dead-center in the forehead. A pistol lay on the floor next to the face, a .45-caliber American-made M1191 Al pistol. Gloved hands still gripped the stock. The gloves were a tan leather with gold buckles across the wrists.
“Bloody hell,” gasped Mansell as he stared down at the contorted features of Captain Oliver Terreblanche.
Calmly, Joshua dragged the body behind a row of parked cars. He tried the trunk latches on several. On the fourth, a Ford Maverick, the latch disengaged and the trunk opened. He lifted the body inside and closed the lid.
“My car’s at the edge of town,” Joshua said. He grabbed Mansell by the elbow and steered him back to the Audi. “There’s no hurry.”
The engine turned over. “You knew he was here,” Mansell said. “How?”
A steep incline led to the garage exit. “I had a good teacher. Remember?” Joshua said for the second time.
“I’m learning a few things myself.”
They located Joshua’s GM sedan parked at the rear of a gas station at the city limits.
Joshua opened the door, but Mansell caught him by the wrist. Their eyes met. “Thanks,” he said.
Joshua shrugged. “What are friends for?”
****
Delaney stood at the front door leaning on her walking stick.
With her free hand she motioned to the Security Branch officer, who was, at that moment, slouching in the front seat of the unmarked car parked at the curb. He sat up with a start, opened the door, and clambered out.
“Tea?” she called out. “I just made a fresh pot.”
He hesitated. Delaney walked halfway down the walk, exaggerating her limp. “Sitting in that car can get a little boring, I imagine.” “I’m used to it,” he answered with bravado.
“I’m sure. Still, I think we’re supposed to be on the same side.” Delaney threw back her shoulders and smiled. She turned and started back to the house. “I’ll leave the door open in case you change your mind.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said, following.
His partner was already seated at the kitchen table. Delaney poured three cups. She set a box of donuts next to the cream and sugar.
“Help yourself, but save me one of the chocolates,” she said, smiling again. “I have to make a visit to the little girls’ room.”
In the bathroom, Delaney pushed aside wooden shutters and looked across the front lawn. She watched her neighbor, Sally Claybourne, cross the street, open the front door of the Security officers’ car, and lean inside. Sally rolled up all the windows. She locked both doors. She climbed out, held up the keys triumphantly, and scurried back to her own house.
Back in the kitchen, Delaney refilled the officers’ cups. She turned on the radio and started humming.
“We’re eating all your donuts,” the partner said.
“Eat,” replied Delaney, taking a chocolate one from the box. “They’ll only go stale if you don’t. I’ll see if the newspaper has come yet.”
Silently, she took her purse and coat from the hall closet. She stepped outside, and reset the dead bolt behind her. The Fiat was parked in the driveway.
When the Security men heard the engine, they spran
g for the front door, one of them pulling unsuccessfully at the handle. Frantically, they raced through the house to the back door and outside. By the time they reached their locked car, the Fiat was out of sight.
In the city, Delaney parked in an underground lot below the Port Elizabeth National Bank. She returned to the street and hailed a taxi.
****
After collecting his East Fields photographs from Castle Drug, Mansell returned to Millard Grange. He parked the car off Lancaster Avenue and set out on foot for his own neighborhood.
Once there he crept furtively through the alley behind Northview Avenue. A cedarwood fence separated the grounds of the Clavers’ house from the alleyway. He walked the length of the alley, using the neighbors’ backyards for reconnaissance. As far as Mansell could tell, they were using one car and three men to watch his own house six doors up. He returned to the Clavers’ fence. He pushed aside a tall gate. Like a nervous doe at the edge of a forest, Mansell stood, poised, studying. The house was shrouded in darkness except for the time-activated lights in a bathroom upstairs and a bedroom on the main floor.
The door to the guest entrance was not locked.
Mansell closed it behind him. His hand touched the key left in the lock, and he turned it. He felt his way down a flight of stairs.
He followed a glow of yellow light through a narrow hallway into a room filled with wooden furniture and thick carpet. Delaney was there, seated on the edge of the sofa. A bottle of champagne and two crystal goblets sat on the end table next to her. Lighted candles cast soft shadows across her face. A silk dressing gown reflected the dancing flames. She arose.
Without speaking, Mansell stepped across the floor. He took her in his arms. Her gown opened, and their lips met. Delaney’s arms surrounded him. Her hands darted from his head to his back, drawing him closer. Slowly, through the flood of their kisses and the urgency of their caresses, Mansell lowered her to the edge of the couch.
