Charlie understood the concerns expressed by his boss, he had to cope with them every day. He also remembered the promise he’d made to Ellen, get out by the end of June. But he figured that they were still in control of the game and he was confident in his ability to get the job finished and move to Geneva knowing that he’d fulfilled his promise. And because of his north-east of England upbringing, he couldn’t tolerate being told what to do by people for whom he had no respect. As long as Ellen could hold on, he would leave Portugal when he decided and not before. And certainly not because some incompetent and corrupt communist government or committee thought he should go.
He reached absent-mindedly for a cigarette, then remembered his decision to quit. Instead, he drank a sip of the fine white Douro wine. Olivier really knew his vintages. I hope the Swiss wines are up to this standard, he thought to himself.
He told Olivier the same thing he’d told Ellen. “I don’t think it’s time for us to jump ship. We’ve got three more contracts to deliver, which will bring another quarter million dollars to Geneva. You’ve kept your end of the bargain and we have to do the same. This will take us from the three percent that we’ve earned to date, to the four percent we agreed on.”
“Charlie, I’ve already told you that I’m going to allocate four percent, whatever. You’ve done enough. It’s simply too risky. We’ve been lucky until now but it won’t last for ever.”
“We’re not looking for any favours. It’s only fair that we should deliver what we promised.” Nick was as adamant as his friend.
Charlie said. “You know, I’m quite enjoying running rings around these idiots in the so-called nationalisation committee, and the Marxist creeps in the bank. They haven’t got a clue what’s going on. If we can’t fool them ‘till the end of the month and contribute a few more dollars to Geneva, then my name is not… What’s my name again?”
Olivier smiled, but was still concerned. “What about Ellen? Is she OK with this?”
“I’ve talked to her and she’s up for it. Cascais isn’t Lisbon, she doesn’t see much of the stuff we see. She gets regular updates from Alberto and Maggie and our embassy, so she knows the score. We’re all determined to see this through for another couple of weeks.”
Olivier pushed his plate away. “Right. We’ll do it your way. I’m sending Cristina and the kids to Geneva this week to stay with Ruiz but I’ll organise my timing to fit in with yours. I’ll stay here until the end of the month. You obviously can’t continue if I’m not around. In any case, as you say, whatever we can squeeze out in the next couple of weeks will make progress in Geneva that much easier. Let’s make our starting date July first.”
The three men raised their glasses and toasted the vision of a new start, in Switzerland.
But once again it was not to work out quite like that. The pace of change was accelerating, and not for the better.
TWENTY-EIGHT
June, 1975
Lisbon, Portugal; Luanda, Angola
On Friday June 13th, Nick received a call from Angola. It was Henriques.
“Have you seen what’s happened in Mozambique? They haven’t even signed the bloody decree yet and it’s civil war already. And it’s starting in Angola. I’ve been assuming things might get sorted, but I was wrong. The shit’s already hitting the fan. Can you and Charlie come down? I need to talk to you. It can’t wait, it’s bloody urgent!”
The declaration of independence of Mozambique for June 25th had been announced several months before and already over a quarter of a million white ethnic Portuguese, retornados, had fled from the Marxist FRELIMO government-in-waiting and returned home, leaving virtually no qualified workers to manage the delapidated infrastructure left behind by them.
APA had closed their office there earlier in the year, exactly six months after the death of Carlos Souza Machado. Now it seemed the country was in civil war. Rumours abounded of a bloody massacre in the capital, Lourenco Marques, with thousands of civilian deaths at the hands of Samora Machel, the leader of the FRELIMO movement.
Nick hesitated. “What’s happening with the MPLA and FNLA? Is it the same as before?”
When Henriques confirmed it was, Nick agreed to do his best. “I’ll talk to Charlie. If he’s OK with it we’ll be there as soon as we can get a flight. If we can get a flight.”
Charlie called Henriques back immediately. “What’s this about? I’m not sure that flying down to Luanda is a great idea at the minute.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Charlie, it’s a matter of life and fucking death. And I’m talking about the life and death of me and Manuela and all my family. If the MPLA get hold of us we’re dead. Those maniacs are meaner than a pride of three-legged lions. I think you can help us and I’m begging you as a friend to come here one last time. Please don’t let me down.”
“Let me check with Mario what things are like in Luanda. If it seems safe we’ll come as soon as we can. If not, well, let’s wait and see.”
Charlie made the call to Mario. He knew that Henriques didn’t panic easily. If they were going to do something, it had to be quick. “What’s the situation at the airport, is it still safe?”
“It’s still being run by the Portuguese and they’re operating evacuation flights every day. There’s thousands of families camping all over the place and the UN and some other agencies have set up a camp and food kitchens in the grounds. But the army’s patrolling the area, so the terminal itself is fairly safe. Around Luanda it’s very complicated. The Portuguese are assuring safe passage on the perimeter roads around the city and the MPLA are basically in control of the centre. But they’re all waiting for the starting pistol to fire, so it’s just a matter of time.”
“How about driving up the coast road towards Cabinda, is it safe?”
“It depends how far. It’s controlled by the Portuguese when you leave the city, then there’s an MPLA unit further north, and then the FNLA are in charge up near the border.”
Mario’s information confirmed what Henriques had recounted. He rang off and looked at Nick. “Are you up for this?”
When Charlie told Olivier of their decision the banker was dead set against the idea. “Why the hell would you want to go back down to Angola? Don’t you think we’ve got enough problems here in Lisbon? Look, Charlie, it’s only two weeks to Geneva. Why take any risks?”
Charlie thought for a moment before replying. “Wouldn’t you do it for me?”
TAP, the national airline, was still flying to Luanda, but since hardly anyone except army personnel and politicians was going down there now, the departure times varied from day to day. They easily got first class seats to go down the following Wednesday morning, but it required a lot of bribery and persuasion to book the return seats for Thursday evening.
Most passengers in Lisbon airport were going to the UK, or other European countries, but even at seven in the morning the soldiers at immigration spared nobody. They searched every bag and many passengers so thoroughly that they had the women in tears. Their passports and travel papers were inspected by four officers before they got through passport control.
The departures hall was milling with people. “It looks like everybody who hasn’t already left is leaving today.” Nick held his nose against the smell of unwashed bodies.
As they fought their way towards their Luanda flight, they passed the departure gate for the Swissair flight to Zurich. There was shouting and a scuffle broke out in the packed crowd.
“What the hell’s going on over there?”
Before Charlie could answer, two men in business suits carrying briefcases broke free from the crowd and ran towards them. The queue at the gate split apart and two soldiers appeared by the passport control desk, fighting their way into the clear. One of them had a pistol in his hand. He shouted out, “Parem ou dispararei! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The second officer kneeled down and raised a rifle to his shoulder. People started screaming as the other passengers threw themselves to the floor. Parents pulle
d their children down to the safety of their arms. Two women were standing next to Charlie, totally confused, panic stricken, incapable of moving.
“On the floor, stay down!” he yelled at Nick. He pulled the women down to the floor and lay flat on his face. The fake marble surface was thick with greasy dirt. It stank in his nostrils.
Nick was mesmerised by the sight of the two men running right at him. He didn’t move. Suddenly there was a gap all the way from the desk to the running men. The soldier aimed his rifle and loosed off two shots. Blood spouted from the head of the second man, and he was propelled to the floor, right at Nick’s feet. The other man grabbed hold of his jacket and ran behind him, trying to shield himself from the gunmen.
Nick snapped out of his trance. He fought the man off and scrambled behind a metal bench. The man looked towards the soldiers. He was shouting, appealing to them. Two more shots rang out and he fell to the floor, clutching his chest, almost on top of Nick. A bloody pool appeared under his lifeless body.
There was silence for a few moments. Then the sound of hysterical crying, shouting and screaming broke out. People were grabbing their bags and dragging their families away from the bodies lying bleeding on the floor. Shielding their children from the sight of the massacre. Others lay still, not yet daring to move. The soldiers pushed aside the crowds and marched up to the victims. One of them checked them for a pulse, then shook his head at his partner, “Nada.” They stood over the two dead men, still holding their weapons at the ready. Looking round at the crowds, hoping to find more prey.
Charlie was sitting on the floor beside the two women. They grabbed his hands, talking away to him. Thanking him, thanking God for their escape. He helped them up then dusted himself off, picked up his case and went over to Nick.
“You bloody stupid South African!” He shouted at him. “What part of “On the floor, stay down”, do you not understand? Lesson one in survival, hear bad noises, dive for cover!”
“Jesus Christ almighty!” Nick got back to his feet. He was trembling uncontrollably. He looked for his bag. It was under the body of the man who’d tried to use him as a shield.
The passengers were calming down again, most of them keeping well away from the soldiers and the corpses. A few came up to look at the bodies, pointing and gossiping as if it was an insignificant incident. The crowd had reformed at the gate, eager to get their flights.
Charlie couldn’t believe the lack of reaction from many of the crowd. What will it take to make them understand what’s going on in their country?
By this time another half dozen soldiers had arrived on the scene. They chattered away for a few minutes, inspected the two dead men then shook hands with the gunmen. Everyone looked pleased with the carnage. The soldiers fetched a baggage trolley, loaded up the two bodies and carted them out of the hall. A cleaning woman came over with a mop and bucket. She wiped Nick’s bag and gave it to him, then started slopping water over the blood-covered floor.
A middle-aged man standing nearby had heard the talk between the soldiers. He whispered to them in English, “They were two of the officers who planned the coup with General Spinola in March, they’ve been looking for them for months. The rest are all in prison. Now they’ve got them, they’re happy.” He picked up his suitcase. “Thank God I’m getting out of this bloody country. I just hope the flights will operate. Nothing else does any more.”
They made their way shakily to their departure gate and ordered a couple of brandies at the bar. Nick decided to give up his no booze vow until he recovered his nerves. He knocked back the liquor in one swig. “In the middle of a bloody airport. What the hell are we doing here, Charlie?”
They ordered another drink then sat quietly for a while, waiting for the boarding announcement and trying to settle themselves before their departure.
The flight itself was very quiet. Mostly military staff and a couple of men in business suits. A few Angolan families with children were in the back. Álvaro Cunhal was also on the plane. Charlie acknowledged him and introduced Nick. He wasn’t sure whether the PCP leader remembered him but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry. The plane departed at nine am, only an hour late. After a light snack they managed to get some sleep.
At about seven in the evening, an hour before the approach to Craveiro Lopes Airport, they were woken by the erratic movement of the plane. A violent thunder storm was raging around the aircraft. It was pitch black outside and they could hear rain lashing against the portholes. A jagged lightning flash lit up the sky for a moment. They were flying through a thick bank of cloud, black and grey, impenetrably dense. The plane was buffeted from side to side by the storm, heaving and bucking like a child’s kite blowing about in the air.
Nick gripped the seat rests until his knuckles were white. Suddenly they dropped several hundred feet through an air pocket and his face turned the same colour. A woman in the back of the plane started screaming and set off the other women and children. It was bedlam.
Coming in to land, the wind was gusting violently across the runway. The pilot came in at high speed, one wing lower than the other, until they were sure he would turn the plane over. At the last minute he accelerated and righted the trajectory, bouncing the aircraft onto the tarmac with a bang. The noise of the reverse thrusts screamed in their ears as they slowed and came to a rest in front of the terminal. The passengers in the back clapped and cheered with relief.
Charlie grimaced at Nick. “Welcome to Angola!”
The sweat was running down the South African’s face, he’d never been a keen flier. He didn’t know which was worse, the shooting in the departures hall, or the last hour on the plane.
The immigration desk was manned by civilian staff working under the close scrutiny of four heavily-armed Portuguese soldiers. After showing their documents and opening their bags, they walked through to the arrivals hall. It was chaos. Hundreds of people were crammed into the area like sardines in a can. Africans and Europeans alike were loaded down with trunks, bags, children, boxes, parcels. Women in brightly coloured wraps, bandanas and scarves carried bundles on their heads. Some were carrying crates of chickens in each hand. There were children leading goats, pigs or dogs on pieces of rope. Families were camped out on the floor, many of them eating their evening meal, bags and possessions strewn all over the place.
Would-be passengers were screaming at the one or two airport employees or UN representatives who were unlucky enough to pass by. Waving bundles of escudos, they were pleading for tickets on outgoing flights. Any flights, it didn’t matter to where, just as long as it was somewhere else. They both fought feelings of mounting claustrophobia as they struggled through the sweating, frightened crowd amid the cacophony of noise that surrounded them.
Henriques was waiting inside the main doors, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Nice flight?” They ignored the sarcasm and said nothing about the shootings in Lisbon airport, he seemed to have enough to worry about.
He gestured around at the melee. “These are not people arriving in Angola. There’s hardly anyone coming here now. These are people who are trying to leave. The departures hall is full, so they overflow everywhere in the terminal. And just wait ‘till you see the car park.”
Another unit of armed soldiers was stationed at the main doors, studying the faces of the crowds flowing in and out of the building. They were not stopped and made their way out to the covered walkway. The blast of humid air hit them like a hot, drenching shower and made the sweat pour out of their skins. The rain was beating down so hard that it was bouncing up off the ground. The air had a fetid, animal smell, as if they were in the middle of the jungle.
Henriques had fetched oilskins for them to put on before leaving the relative protection of the walkway. As they ran to his Transit van in the car park, they saw that half of it had been cordoned off for the campers that Mario had described. Thousands of exhausted, filthy-looking Portuguese and African men, women and children of all ages, holding umbrellas, tarpauli
n sheets, coats, blankets, even plastic shopping bags over themselves. Some had erected scruffy canvas tents, anything to provide some protection from the downpour.
A marquee with a UN flag flying over it stood in the middle of the campsite, queues of clamouring people lined up at its entrance. Trying to get onto the increasing number of emergency flights that were leaving every day. Another marquee was set up as a soup kitchen. Lines of people jostled and pushed in the pouring rain, hoping to get something to eat before night. Others were sitting patiently, desperately waiting for someone to get them out of that God-forsaken country and back to the relative civilisation of their home country. Henriques drove slowly and carefully past the crowds of people and out onto the perimeter road.
From the shelter of an army hut at the side of the car park, Jorge Gomez watched the three men drive away in the van. He had arrived on a military flight late the previous night and had got a few hours sleep at an army barracks before returning to the airport to mingle with the crowds of refugees. The phone tapping system had finally thrown up something worthwhile. He was now absolutely certain that APA was planning something with the Angolan company. The only way to find out was to come to Luanda himself and see where they went and who they met.
He ran through the driving rain to the closed jeep waiting for him in the car park. The army corporal at the wheel opened the door for him and he climbed in, his shirt already soaked through. “See the white van that just went out. Follow it!”
TWENTY-NINE
June, 1975
Ambrizete, Angola
Henriques’s Transit was a converted coach, with the back closed off behind two front bench seats. It was reinforced to transport goods and materials at the mine. The three men shared the driver’s bench seat as he drove across the city and picked up the coast road leading north to the border with Zaire. His mine was located near Ambrizete, about two hundred kilometres away.
Even considering the storm that was following them, the road was much worse than they remembered. It was rutted with pot holes, a stream of water running down the middle of the cracked surface. In the ditch at the side of the road a filthy flood roared alongside them, threatening to inundate the remaining tarmac at any moment.
[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan Page 19
