Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  Government officials, anxious to avert a crisis, argued that this might well endanger Miss Elliot’s chances of survival, if she were still alive. They asked him for a few days’ grace so that the army could comb the Umtali area in one last attempt to find Miss Elliot.

  The moment Tongogara left the police station and Samantha had been safely removed to the bungalow behind it, Captain Georgio darted back into his office and dialled a number on the phone. Speaking in English, he asked for General Vorotnikov and was immediately connected.

  ‘General Vorotnikov. Speak.’

  As usual the voice made Captain Georgio freeze with fear. He tried desperately to maintain his composure.

  ‘Comrade General, you told me to report anything to you that might be of assistance to the Soviet Union. I am in the Manica E Sofala area. I have captured an American reporter who was operating on the eastern border of Rhodesia.’

  ‘Have him shot. He is most likely a capitalist mercenary.’

  ‘No, Comrade . . .’

  ‘You know the punishment for not obeying an order.’

  Captain Georgio began to wonder about the wisdom of calling the General. But he was sick of the police station. He wanted a promotion and this was an opportunity to get noticed.

  ‘General Vorotnikov, she is a woman. I have seen her name in the capitalist propaganda magazine Time. She is famous.’

  ‘You read such imperialist rubbish? It is punishable, do you understand? Where is this American woman?’

  ‘Here, Comrade. You want me to kill her?’

  ‘Do not make fun of me, Captain Georgio. Men who make fun of their commanders live short lives. Do not wreck your chances.’

  ‘I apologise, Comrade. What are your orders?’

  ‘Keep her . . . Now tell me, who really captured her?’

  ‘Comrade Tongogara.’

  There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the phone.

  Captain Georgio knew why: Comrade Tongogara was not popu­lar with the Soviet military. He had threatened them, told them they should not expect the new state of Zimbabwe to be a communist puppet.

  ‘Interesting. Is Comrade Tongogara involved with this woman?’

  ‘I am not sure, but I think they are lovers. He threatened to kill me if anything happened to her. I told him I would look after her. But I know of the debt that ZANLA owes to FRELIMO and to the Soviet Union. That is why I called you.’

  ‘You did well, Captain Georgio. Keep the woman. I will contact you again in the morning. If anything happens to her, you will be disciplined.’

  ‘But . . .’

  The phone was dead before Captain Georgio could continue. The sweat poured off his forehead. If Tongogara came back for her, then he would accompany them. She was his prisoner. He would make sure that Tongogara was arrested as a traitor; he would like to see them kill him very slowly . . . These ZANLA soldiers thought they were a cut above the rest. Well, he would show them who was in charge. ZANLA were nothing without the Soviet support that kept them going. The new Rhodesia would be a Marxist state, of that there could be no doubt.

  He, Georgio, had been one of the few citizens of Mozambique who had been selected to go to Moscow for training. He had expected promotion and respect on his return, but instead he had been sitting in this derelict police station for nearly a year. It was not his fault that he did not have the gift of intelligence or the ability to fire a rifle accurately. Well, now he would earn a position where men would accord him the respect he deserved. Tonight, he would have some enjoyment with this white bitch.

  He pulled out the bottle of whisky that he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk, and took a hefty slug. The smooth brown liquid felt good as it trickled down his throat and put fire into his stomach.

  Sam was feeling much better. She’d had a hot bath and changed into some of Georgio’s clothes. Perhaps she had been over­reacting when Tongogara left her.

  She was surprised when Georgio came into her room. He set two glasses down on the table and tried to pour whisky into both of them. At the first attempt he missed, but he didn’t seem to care much. He handed Sam a full glass which she reluctantly took from him.

  ‘To your future, Miss Elliot.’

  She put the glass to her mouth but did not drink.

  ‘Good whisky?’

  ‘I prefer bourbon.’

  She decided that she’d have to get rid of him as politely as possible. She was tired, and had no intention of putting up with a drunk.

  ‘You Americans. You like to be different. I’ve never met an American woman before. Perhaps the American consul might have some bourbon. If you’re nice to me I might let you talk to him.’

  Sam’s heart skipped a beat. Perhaps she could persuade this fool to take her to the consul.

  Georgio got up and staggered outside. She saw him through the window as, whistling, he fumbled with his pants, then let them slide to the ground and urinated noisily in the sand. He lumbered back into the room again and picked up the whisky. ‘Like another drink?’

  She passed over her nearly full glass and he slopped some more whisky into it. He pulled a cigar out of his top pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He sat looking at her.

  ‘Come here.’

  This was what she had expected. She had no intention of putting up with this pig. ‘I’m quite comfortable here, thank you, Captain.’

  ‘I told you. Come here.’

  She got up and walked over to him, pretending to look seductive to get him off guard. Suddenly, she threw the whisky in his face. Then she whipped up her right knee, hard into his groin. She had known how much stronger he would be than she was, and had waited for this opportunity. Now he rolled on the floor at her feet - and the image came back to her of Sithole lying on the ground after Mnangagwa had shot his balls off.

  ‘Bitch. Fucking white bitch.’

  She picked up his gun and pointed it at his head.

  ‘Comrades!’

  She heard the shouts outside the bungalow and two men rushed into the room. She found herself shaking with fear, unable to pull the trigger.

  Georgio screamed at the man closest to him. ‘You baboon’s arse! Help me up.’ The other grabbed Sam and savagely twisted her right arm. She cried out in pain and dropped the gun.

  ‘Take the bitch to the cells!’ yelled Georgio. ‘Give her the water!’

  The two men dragged Sam roughly back towards the police station. She started to scream, but received a hefty blow across the side of her face. They pulled her down a flight of stone stairs into the basement. A nauseating smell of vomit and urine filled her nostrils. It was almost pitch dark here, except for the light thrown by a few candles on the walls. She was thrust into a square cell with a chair at its centre. They frog-marched her over to the chair and forced her to sit on it; then they forced her arms through the struts that ran down the back and fastened her hands behind her with an old-fashioned set of screw handcuffs that bit through her wrists. She cried out again but was ignored. They lashed her legs to the base of the chair and then left the cell, not bothering to lock the door. Clearly they were going to leave her here for the night as punishment for what she had done. In front of her was what looked like a horse’s drinking trough, filled with foul-smelling water.

  Sam could hear noises coming from the other cells, the sounds of people sleeping uneasily. She tried to relax, but every time she nodded off to sleep she sank forwards and the pain in her wrists woke her up.

  It was much, much later when she heard the sounds of men coming down the stairs towards her cell. The light in the cell got brighter and she saw that they were carrying a gas lantern.

  Georgio and his two henchmen came in.

  ‘Hallo, Samantha. Did we wake you?’

  Georgio’s laughter echoed hideously round the cell. He had another bottle of whisky with him, and he was having difficulty in walking. He pulled up a stool and sat down next to her. Then he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He inhaled slowly, watching the end o
f the cigar as it became brighter. He let out a puff of tobacco smoke - and then he nodded at the two men.

  Before Sam realised what they were doing, they had picked her up and carried her and the chair to the water trough. They tipped her forwards until her nose was just touching the water. She started to retch because of the smell.

  ‘Not pleasant, is it, bitch? But then you obviously don’t think I’m pleasant either. You wouldn’t drink with me - we’ll see if you prefer this kind of drink.’

  The guards pulled the chair back and wrenched her mouth open. Georgio took the whisky bottle and upended it in her mouth. He clamped his fingers over her nose and as she tried to breathe, whisky poured down her throat.

  Just as she thought she was going to black out, he pulled the bottle away - and the moment she started to breathe in, they up­ended the chair in the trough, forcing her head beneath the water.

  For a while she managed to hold her breath, but the whisky affected her resolve and she started to take in deep mouthfuls of water. She had heard that drowning was a pleasant death, but this was like suffocating.

  They pulled her out of the water at last. She vomited into it. All she was aware of was the noise of laughter echoing round the cell.

  She must have lost consciousness. She came round as they slapped her face. They looked worried now. They untied her, and pushed her onto the floor. One of the men pushed her stomach and she threw up a foul-smelling vomit. The man felt her pulse. ‘She’ll live.’

  They left her on the concrete floor and locked the cell door behind them. Their footsteps echoed up the stairs.

  She lay in the darkness on the cold floor. At least she was alive. A strong feeling filled her body, the desire to kill. She had killed Tongogara’s assassin by accident, but this man, Georgio, she genuinely wanted to murder. What she felt for him was not the impersonal hostility of war but a deep, personal hatred. He had destroyed her pride. She would destroy him.

  Captain Georgio felt the throbbing in his head. He opened his eyes, to see the roof of the bungalow revolving in front of him. He felt the pain between his legs and remembered the night before.

  There were noises in the distance, and that was strange because it was Sunday, and generally nothing at all happened on Sunday. It occurred to him that the throbbing sound might not just be in his head, but coming from outside the bungalow.

  He staggered to his feet and knocked over the bottle standing next to the bed. The smell of whisky nearly caused him to pass out. He peered out of the window and saw a Soviet helicopter gunship coming in to land in a storm of dust. What was it doing here, today of all days? He remembered quickly and tore out of the room, but it was too late. General Vorotnikov appeared out of the dust storm, tall and forbidding, followed by six of his bodyguard. He saluted Georgio, who responded with difficulty.

  ‘Captain Georgio. Where is the prisoner?’

  ‘Prisoner, Comrade General?’

  ‘Yes, you fool. The American woman we spoke of yesterday.’

  ‘She is not here.’

  ‘Captain Georgio, if this is some elaborate joke you will pay for it dearly.’

  Vorotnikov’s voice was like a whip. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-fifties, his black hair streaked with grey, but his body was that of a younger man and there was a spring in his step. He was immaculately kitted out in a camouflage uniform bearing no insignia of rank. He didn’t need insignia - he exuded power.

  Vorotnikov’s face had a Germanic look to it, enhanced by the thin, stainless steel spectacles that were perched on his nose. The strong jaw-line, the elegant cheek bones and the cool grey eyes, all these spoke of an aristocratic background. To Georgio this man was a typical Russian; no understanding, no time to wait.

  ‘Where is she, Captain Georgio?’

  ‘Not far from here, Comrade General. It was dangerous to keep her here. The Selous Scouts operate in this area.’

  Captain Georgio noted with relief that the hardness of General Vorotnikov’s jaw had softened. He had won some time.

  ‘Of course. However, I am not a Selous Scout, I am a Russian general. Fetch her, please. We will wait.’

  Georgio staggered off to the dormitory that was housed within the police station. The room was filled with snores and he laid about him with the riding crop he usually carried. He must get these fools up, and then get the woman out of the cell.

  ‘Get up, you idiots. The General Vorotnikov is here. If he finds the woman in the cell he will kill us all. You, Gomez, drive the truck away, make as if we are fetching the woman from the bush. Grab one of the women from the village, bring her back with a sack over her head and take her into my office. We will fool the General yet.’

  ‘What if the American woman is dead, Captain?’

  ‘Then we are too, Gomez.’

  General Vorotnikov leaned against the side of the gunship smoking a Turkish-blend cigarette. He reckoned Captain Geor­gio had earned his promotion. The capture of this journalist could really embarrass the Americans, especially as their Dr Kissinger had been trying to interfere in the Rhodesia peace settlement. Some marvellous publicity could be made out of this.

  He saw the truck drive away from the police station and smiled, for he knew the woman would soon be in his hands. Well, there was no reason for him to waste his time. He might as well take a look around the police station, an interesting imperial­ist structure. It was always a good thing to look, observe, be aware. His years in command had taught him the value of constant vigilance.

  He looked inside the bungalow Georgio had come from. It stank of whisky. But two glasses. Who would he have been drinking with? A woman - two men would drink from the bottle. A policeman in an area like this could have any woman he liked, all he had to do was arrest her. So why bother to entertain? Yes, it would be the American woman. Who could blame him, especially if she was attractive. An attractive woman would make much better publicity.

  Vorotnikov left the bungalow and walked over to the police station. What a mess. Captain Georgio could at least have tried to maintain some order. He passed down a passage and into a courtyard. The Portuguese had been efficient colonisers, pity that such a good building had gone to rack and ruin. He entered the other side of the building through a large door and guessed correctly that he was in Captain Georgio’s office.

  Chaos. Even clothes lying on the floor. The man obviously had no pride. General Vorotnikov rummaged through the papers on the desk top and found nothing of interest. Next he went through the drawers and found a half-empty bottle of whisky. The man was boring and weak, a useful person to have under his control.

  He got up from the chair behind the desk and strolled back into the passage. Most of the other offices were empty and full of cobwebs. He walked into one and watched the crew of the helicopter gunship checking the engines and waiting for take-off. Good men, disciplined men. He noted that his own men were to one side, sitting down in the shade. Every one of them was hand- picked. They would never be used like the blacks, as cannon fodder for the Rhodesians.

  He was sick of this war. The bloody British settlers would never give up. Stupid bastards getting blown to pieces for a stupid war ethic. They probably thought they were fighting the Second World War all over again. Fine troops, excellent disci­pline, but all thrown away on a war they couldn’t win. It would all be over for them soon. Then he would concentrate on the jewel. South Africa.

  Yes, that was a jewel. Complete control of the Cape sea-route. Control of the world gold market, the diamond market, the strategic minerals - radioactive and otherwise. Control of a whole continent. He, Alexei Vorotnikov, would achieve all of this, and soon.

  He proceeded down the passage. A narrow stairway led downwards - to the cells, he guessed. He did not feel like looking around that foul-smelling area, his breakfast was still in his stomach. He was about to walk on when he heard a scream that stopped him in his tracks.

  It was definitely a woman’s scream. He changed his mind and walked down the steps. God, t
he place stank.

  Another scream and he upped his pace. The door at the end of the row of cells was open. Inside he saw a woman, half-naked, lying on the floor. Her face was deathly white.

  The instinct that had earned him the reputation of being one of the best combat soldiers in his regiment saved his life. He ducked as the piece of concrete brushed against the grey hairs on his skull, then turned to see Captain Georgio facing him, pointing a pistol directly at him. Vorotnikov kicked the pistol out of Georgio’s hand and it clattered noisily to the floor. Georgio stood shivering, unarmed, in the corner. There was no sign of his men.

  ‘What have you done to her, you dog?’

  ‘She refused to cooperate.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  They heard a cough and both turned to look down at the woman lying on the floor of the cell. Long blonde hair, a beautiful face and green eyes that flashed. She was covered in slime and her blouse was torn open, exposing her breasts. She spoke very softly.

  ‘He tried to rape me. Then they tried to drown me in the trough.’

  Vorotnikov untied her carefully. Then he gestured for Georgio to sit down on the chair.

  ‘Do as I command, Captain, or you’re a dead man.’

  When he had securely bound Georgio he helped Samantha out of the cell and into Georgio’s office. She looked close to death.

  ‘What would you have me do with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Kill him.’ Her voice was cold.

  He went out into the sun and called his men into the building.

  ‘Take her to the gunship and make sure she is well cared for.’

  Then he walked back down to the cell and looked at the Captain who was now shaking with fear. He picked up a piece of wood from the floor and tested the depth of the water in the trough with it. It protruded by about ten centimetres.

  ‘Let’s see how long you can live.’