by Andy Maslen
The third time he awoke, he felt something approaching normal. His watch was gone. He looked down. He was naked.
His torso was an atlas of pain, the countries and continents coloured purple, blue, red, yellow and green.
He could smell the rank stink of urine.
The room was ten feet square. No windows. A single door. A bare electric light bulb on a short length of flex.
He heard a key scrape in the lock. Pushed himself back against the wall. Tried to stand. Managed to get into a half-crouch when the door swung inwards.
Filling the frame, Julius Witaarde stood, smiling down at him.
‘How did you sleep, Alec? Is that your real name, by the way? We checked your ID, but who knows what those kaffirs down in Pretoria can do.’
‘I’m not a spy.’
‘No? Then explain all the bullshit you told Klara.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t say anything to Klara after she left us alone after dinner.’
Witaarde said nothing in reply. His smile widening, he entered the room and stood to one side. Behind stood Klara. In place of the peasant blouse, suede skirt and bare feet, she now wore a starched, military-style shirt and khaki combat trousers tucked into riding boots.
And Gabriel realised. He’d been played. The oldest trick in the book: the honey trap.
Klara folded her arms across her chest, as if to deny the reality of what he had seen in the early hours of the morning. She sneered down at him.
‘I’m a slave, Alec,’ she said in a whiny, sing-song voice. ‘Julius beats me. He put his mark on me.’
She crossed the room in a couple of long strides and kicked him mid-thigh. He gasped and clenched his jaws to avoid giving her the satisfaction of signalling his pain.
‘You pathetic piece of shit,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what sort of women you have in England, but I’m a loyal Boer wife and a proud freedom fighter. There was something off about your act from the moment you turned up in my kitchen. I warned Julius, but he fell for your crap.’
She kicked him again, on the same spot, and this time Gabriel bit his tongue in an effort to stay quiet.
‘My tattoo? BAW doesn’t stand for Behoort aan Witaarde,’ she said. ‘It’s Beter Almal Wit. You get that, spioen?’ Another kick. ‘Better All White. And I got the bruise when my horse threw me.’
Gabriel stared up at them both. Witaarde had a pistol on his hip in a brown leather holster. Not the 629. This looked like a basic nine. Klara wasn’t carrying.
He calculated distances, angles, lines of attack. If he could get to his feet, he’d stand a chance. Allow them to march him somewhere, slow down, stumble, back into Witaarde, roll under the muzzle and to the side in a Krav Maga move, disable Witaarde with an elbow to the side, disarm him, shoot them both, get out, steal a car, get gone.
He pushed his back into the wall and levered himself to a standing position, grunting with the effort and feeling his guts roil again.
Witaarde took a step back, hand on the butt of the pistol.
‘Don’t even think about it. You make a move faster than a snail, I’ll put a round into your belly and we’ll leave you out on the veldt for the hyenas. Now, what’s your name? Your real name.’
Gabriel inhaled.
‘Gabriel Wolfe.’
Witaarde smiled.
‘There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Be good and you might get out of this in one piece.’
A phone rang. Gabriel recognised the ring tone. Witaarde frowned and reached into a pocket. The hand that emerged clutched Gabriel’s Department-issued phone.
Witaarde glanced at the screen.
‘Someone called Eli wants you. Here. Talk to her. If I don’t like what I hear I’ll slice your balls off and feed them to my pigs.’
He handed the phone to Gabriel.
‘Eli, hi, what’s up?’ he said.
‘Not much. I’m stuck at home watching the news. I tried to call Don but his phone rang out. Then I went to Rothford. The gate guard turned me away. A new guy. I’m worried, Gabe.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Are you? Because I’m not. How about you. Where are you? Did you find the BVR yet?’
‘It looks like a dead end. I’m in Jo’burg but the guy never showed. I think that Irishman conned me out of ten grand.’
‘Shit! OK, so what next?’
‘Return to base, I guess. Hey, I tell you what?’
‘What?’
Gabriel looked at Klara Witaarde as he spoke. She was regarding him with cold, dead eyes.
‘I’ll cook Sunday dinner for you. Your favourite. Roast pork with all the trimmings.’
‘What? You know I’m Jewish, right? I mean, that little fact about me hadn’t escaped your attention?’
‘Yeah, OK, El. Love you, too. Bye.’
Gabriel handed the phone back to Witaarde.
‘Who is she?’ Witaarde asked.
‘My girlfriend.’
‘Yeah? Well, you better pray I like the rest of your answers or she’s going to be looking for a new man in her life.’
‘Ask me anything.’
Witaarde shook his head.
‘Not here. You sound too fucking cool and collected despite the beating Duckie and Ruud handed you. No, I think we need to get your defences all the way down.’ He turned to his wife. ‘What do you think, darling?’
She grinned.
‘I’ll go and run a bath.’
The horse trough stood in the centre of a barn, its slatted sides admitting the first rays of the sun. The wide, flat shafts captured dust motes that swirled in and out of the yellow light.
The two giant Boers, Duckie and Ruud, had him gripped by the elbows, his arms twisted up behind his back. He trod on a nail buried in the straw and yelped as half an inch of steel penetrated the arch of his foot.
Ignoring him, they frogmarched him over to the trough and pushed him forward at the waist, forcing his head down. He saw himself staring back out of the trough. The water slopped over the rim.
‘Put him in,’ Klara said.
The giants lifted Gabriel as if he were a child and dumped him into the water. He gasped, expecting cold, but it was oddly warm.
He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped his teeth together as one of the men pushed him by the throat backwards and down. He had time to gasp in a breath before the water closed over his face.
The faces wobbled and broke apart, then came together in hideous grins. He willed himself to stay calm, beginning a mantra Master Zhao had taught him. He knew he could hold his breath for up to two and half minutes with sufficient preparation, both physical and mental. But this wasn’t one of those times.
At the forty-five second mark, he could already feel his system screaming for fresh oxygen and had to fight down the urge to struggle against the man’s massive fist.
Sparks jumped in his eyes, then he was being hauled up. Choking and spitting, he drew in a huge breath, then started coughing as water droplets entered his lungs.
‘Why are you here, Gabriel Wolfe?’ Klara said.
The giant thrust him beneath the water again. He’d been expecting time to answer Klara’s question and could only snatch a brief breath before the water rolled over his face again.
Thirty seconds and he was on the point of blacking out. He imagined the water flooding into his nose, his mouth, his throat, his lungs, ending it all, never seeing Eli again. Dying in a foreign country and being thrown out like meat for the veldt’s scavengers.
He was wrenched up again. He struggled to drag air down, retching and coughing. He didn’t think he could take another trip beneath the surface.
‘Wait,’ he gasped. ‘Please, wait. I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t—’
He saw Klara nod. Heaved air into his tortured lungs. Felt the grip on his throat tighten. Plunged under the water again.
Panicking, finally, he grabbed the giant’s wrists, as thick as tree branches, and desperately pulled at the
m. For his pains, he was thrust right to the bottom of the horse trough. He felt the hard steel bang into the nobbles of his spine.
Goodbye, El. I love you so much. We could have been good together. We could have—
49
ALDEBURGH, ENGLAND
Eli rang Don at home. While she waited for him to answer, she tried to squelch the anxiety knotting her stomach. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. The signal had been as clear as an air raid siren.
‘Hello, Eli.’
‘Oh thank god, boss.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Gabe. Gabriel. He’s in trouble.’
‘Trouble how? Trouble where?’
‘South Africa. Johannesburg. I just called him. He sounded strange and then he said he’d cook me roast pork and just hung up on me.’
‘Pork.’
‘Yes! You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘It means somebody was listening in. Someone who doesn’t know you’re Jewish.’
‘I figure he’s been captured. Probably by the BVR. They’re holding him in a safe house. They’ll be interrogating him, trying to find out who sent him. His cover’s blown. I don’t know how, but it is.’
‘Right. One, slow down. Two, take a breath. Three, I need to think. I’ll call you back.’
Five minutes later – Eli had spent the entire interval watching the long red second hand of the kitchen clock circling the dial – her phone rang. She stabbed at the green icon.
‘Boss.’
‘Get yourself to Jo’burg. Do not, repeat do not, go sniffing around for intel. If they took Gabriel there, they have people on the ground. Don’t turn yourself into a target.’
50
HEAVEN
The sheets were so soft. Who knew Heaven would have such a high thread count? He could smell fresh-baked bread. Coffee brewing. An angel speaking. In Afrikaans.
‘Is daardie kak kop nog wakker?’
She sounded just like Klara Witaarde. He heard footsteps. Must be Saint Peter. The gatekeeper came into the bedroom. Gabriel listened, wonderingly. Peter spoke.
‘Hey, shithead. My wife wants to know if you’re awake yet.’
Gabriel opened his eyes. His arms were resting on top of the coverlet. Sun streamed in through a window curtained with off-white muslin that bellied inwards with the breeze.
Witaarde stood over him. He called over his shoulder.
‘Yah, he’s back in the land of the living.’
‘I thought I died,’ Gabriel said.
‘Me too. How about that! It was Klara’s idea to get you out before Ruud pulled your plug for good. That woman has a soft heart.’
Reflecting that any soft-hearted woman who could kick as hard and with as much deadly accuracy as Klara Witaarde was in breach of the Trades Description Act, Gabriel contented himself with a one-word answer.
‘Ivory.’
Witaarde sat on the edge of the bed.
‘What about it?’
‘I want in.’
‘I? What happened to “we”?’
‘There is no “we”.’
‘I knew it!’ Witaarde said, smacking the palms of his hands together. ‘You fucker. You almost had me believing that global white rights story. So, what’s going on? Why are you here?’
‘You no longer think I’m a government spy?’
Witaarde shook his head.
‘Those pussies down south break easier than a Boer virgin. Nobody’s stood up to Ruud’s bath-time that long. What are you, CIA?’
Gabriel shook his head, seeing half a chance.
‘You know what a triad is?’
‘Of course! I’m not some dom yokel. Chinese gangs.’
‘My sister runs one.’
Witaarde’s eyebrows shot towards the ceiling.
‘Get the fuck out of here!’
‘It’s true. Her name’s Wei Mei. That means Beautiful Plum in Mandarin. The triad is called The White Koi.’
Witaarde ran a hand over his face.
‘Prove it.’
‘Bring me my phone.’
Witaarde returned five minutes later. He handed the phone to Gabriel. Gabriel called a speed dial number, then switched the phone to speaker. Mei picked up on the third ring.
‘BB!’
‘Hi, Mei. Listen, no time to explain. I need you to talk to somebody for me. Just answer his questions.’
‘OK.’
He handed the phone back to Witaarde. Then watched Witaarde closely.
‘Who is Gabriel Wolfe?’
‘He is my brother.’
‘What line of business are you in?’
‘Triad.’
Witaarde smiled.
‘What’s the name?’
‘White Koi.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hey!’ Mei snapped. ‘Wait. Gabriel is with you?’
‘He’s my guest, yes.’
‘Do not hurt him. If you hurt him I will find you and kill you.’
She ended the call.
‘Feisty,’ Witaarde said.
‘She means it.’
‘I don’t doubt it. All right. We’ve established your family business is, what, organised crime?’
‘That about covers it.’
‘Then tell me, Gabriel, why are you interested in ivory?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘I know the Chinese buy most of it.’
‘That’s right. Mei wants to move upstream. Take an interest all the way from the source to the customer. She sent me to negotiate.’
‘Why all the bullshit about white rights?’
‘I thought you’d let your guard down if I showed sympathy for your political goals. Not everybody welcomes the attentions of the triads.’
‘Too fucking right!’
Gabriel sat up, waiting for a burst of pain that didn’t arrive. That was good.
‘Cards on the table, Julius. I’m ex-army. I have some mates and we’re looking for a way to make some serious money for ourselves. We’re tooled up and ready to act as Mei’s enforcers over here. You could do with some extra protection.’
Witaarde stood.
‘Get dressed. Go for a walk. Don’t think of running; I’ll have someone shoot you in the leg and bring you back trussed like a hog. And then we’ll go back to the barn.’
51
With the Englishman gone, the ever-reliable Duckie dogging his tracks, Witaarde sipped the fresh mug of coffee Klara had just placed before him.
‘He’s telling the truth.’
‘How do you know? That whole call thing? He could have set it up. He could have support in Hong Kong.’
Witaarde felt a flash of anger. Klara was a loyal wife and a damn good fighter. But she had a mouth on her, too.
‘We nearly fucking drowned him, woman! Nobody goes through that and sticks to their story unless it’s the truth. Nobody!’
She sat down opposite him.
‘What if it is the truth? We don’t want a bunch of English bastards muscling in on a very profitable business. Especially not if they’re triad muscle. They’ll take over, then they’ll either kill us or turn us into hired help. Is that your vision? Because it isn’t mine. I say call Duckie right now and have him put a bullet in the Englishman’s head.’
Witaarde, who’d just lifted the mug to his lips, put it down again. He felt the calmness descending on him. The stillness at his centre where he found the motivation to torture, maim and kill his enemies.
His vision clouded.
He was staring down at a kaffir sprawled before him on the barn’s dirt floor. He felt no pity despite the man’s horrific facial injuries.
A jagged cut above his right eye was bleeding freely, giving him a red contact lens. His nose had been mashed sideways by a fist or boot forcing him to breathe heavily through his mouth.
Every time he gasped for breath his bloody gums moved against each other.
‘One last time, kaffir, who are you working for? The cops? State Security
Agency?’
‘I told you,’ the man mumbled through broken teeth, ‘I’m a wildlife photographer.’
Witaarde drew his right foot back and kicked the man in the solar plexus. He groaned and curled into a foetal position as he struggled for breath.
‘Listen to me, kaffir!’ Witaarde shouted, spraying spittle onto the prostrate figure. ‘The only wildlife round here are our guard dogs. You were caught spying. Now, tell me who for and maybe I’ll let you go.’
Wheezing, the man looked up at Witaarde. And in that moment, as he registered the hatred in his eyes, Witaarde realised he would never get him to talk.
‘You think you’re going to set up a white homeland, Witaarde? Not. Going. To. Happen.’ He heaved in a breath. ‘Fuck you!’
Witaarde shook his head.
‘No, kaffir.’ He pulled his pistol from the polished leather holster on his belt. ‘Fuck you!’
He fired twice, directly at the man’s face, blowing the back of his skull away in a spray of blood, brain and bone.
‘Julius?’
The vision dissipated. He looked across the table at Klara.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘We were talking about what to do with the Englishman.’
‘We don’t kill him. Not yet. If his story checks out, then we could have some very useful support. Think about it, Klara. You know the Botswanans are putting more behind the anti-poaching drive. It’s just as bad in Congo-Brazzaville. These boys are ex-army. British Army. They’re tough. Combat-hardened. The triad connection could work in our favour. They must have better distribution. We cut out Yusuf and the guys in Vientiane and deal direct with the Chinese.’
She shook her head.
‘No. I still say the risks are too high. We should kill him.’
He curled his fingers around the coffee mug. It was still half-full. Hot to the touch. He hurled it in her face. She screamed, leaped from her chair and ran to the sink, reaching blindly for the taps and splashing cold water on her cheeks.
