Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘I keep hearing rumours. Evidently there is tight security at the airfield, and troop transporters fly in every night. Beira is quiet, but outside the area is crawling with Russians. I do not know what they are planning, but be careful.’

  Rayne pulled away, prising himself from Fernandes’ grip.

  ‘Be careful, Mr Brand.’

  Rayne drove out of Beira very slowly to the rendezvous with Mick and Larry. He approached the road-block he had passed through the day before, and the guard, who recognised him, waved him through without bothering to check the car. He kept on the main road now, moving closer and closer to the agreed pick-up point and keeping an eye on his rear-view mirror to make sure he had not been followed.

  After half an hour of driving, he was beginning to get worried. Perhaps Mick and Larry were on the wrong road? He wouldn’t have time to search for them. Just as he was beginning to feel uneasy, a man jumped in front of the car, his face blacked and a riot-pump shotgun in his hands. Rayne slammed his foot hard on the brake and, as the car rolled to a standstill, a second man appeared next to the car door, pointing an assault rifle directly at Rayne’s head.

  The barrel was not dropped until Larry Preston was one hundred per cent sure it was Rayne.

  ‘What if it hadn’t been me, Larry?’ Rayne got out of the car breathing an immense sigh of relief.

  ‘Then we would have had to dispose of you, sir.’

  Rayne drove the car into the yard behind the shop and closed the gates quickly. The security was perfect - no one could see in from the road. He went quickly round to the back of the car, and at his touch the boot lid sprang back to reveal the two bodies. He dragged them out one after the other, and pushed them both into the shower at the back of the shop. Then he turned the cold water on hard.

  After a few minutes they both started to come round. Rayne pulled Larry to his feet, giving him a couple of slaps on the face. If he’d taken much longer at the road-block they might both have died.

  ‘My God . . .’

  ‘Are you all right, Larry?’

  ‘The heat was incredible. We couldn’t breathe. It took every­thing I’d got to stop myself banging on the metal for you to let us out. Mick was out long before I was. I hope the poor bastard’s OK.’

  In reply Mick staggered to his feet and lifted his face into the heavy spray of cold water. Then he turned to Rayne.

  ‘I thought I was dying. Thank God the bastard didn’t open the boot - we wouldn’t have been able to do a bloody thing except breathe. We should have cut a couple of holes in the bodywork of the boot before we started off.’

  ‘Mick, I had no idea we were going to be held up for so long.’

  ‘Was the guy grilling you?’

  ‘No. He ordered me to stop while the Russian General in charge of Beira came tearing up the road. If I’d tried to push on, the guard would have got aggressive. There was bugger-all I could do.’

  Larry and Mick were in reasonable shape after another ten minutes. Rayne had asked for tough men and he’d certainly got them. He led both of them into the main section of the old shop, where the windows had been blanked out with white paint.

  ‘This used to be a supermarket, it’s owned by the Portuguese who runs the hotel. It’s completely private and you won’t be bothered by anyone. As you can see, the front window gives an excellent view of the bank we’re going to attack, and very shortly you’ll be able to watch us going in to make our first contact with the manager. Later, you’ll take over from Guy and me on the hotel roof where we’re keeping watch round the clock - but I don’t want you up there until you’ve completely recovered from this morning’s ordeal.’

  A couple of days cooped up in the shop, Rayne thought to himself, and they’d be thirsting for action.

  ‘I’ll get you plenty of food in town, and I’ll bring it back this afternoon. I haven’t had the electricity turned on in here because I don’t want anyone getting suspicious, so I’ll get you a paraffin stove to cook on. Make absolutely sure no one gets even a glimpse of you - the whole town is simply crawling with Russians.’

  General Vorotnikov stormed out of the storeroom. He had never come across such gross incompetence in his life. Outside, he screamed out a series of commands, and moments later two guards came up, hauling the quartermaster by his arms. The man was white with fear.

  ‘So. You made a mistake?’ It was more of a threat than a question.

  ‘General, I ordered the assault rifles myself, they must be here.’

  ‘Well, you fool, they’re not.’

  Vorotnikov stormed back into the storeroom and emerged some minutes later with a tom piece of paper in his hands. He thrust it in front of the quartermaster.

  ‘What is this, idiot?’

  ‘That is your order for assault rifles, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you obey it?’

  ‘Sir, in all reasonableness, I don’t think I am going to find those weapons for you.’

  Vorotnikov walked angrily away from the quartermaster towards the control tower of the airport. He needed those rifles, he had promised them to ZANLA for the assault on Salisbury. Someone would have to get them for him.

  In the ground floor room of the control tower, the commander of the airport stood trembling before him.

  ‘Conrad, you were the fool who employed the quartermaster, now you sort this out. If this operation fails I shall see that your name is directly linked to the failure. You realise what that will do to your career?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Conrad swallowed hard. ‘You shall have your rifles.’ General Vorotnikov turned on his heels without saying any­thing more and strode back to his car.

  Inside, the bank was no different from any other - a large hall lined with frosted glass through which, at regular intervals, the tellers’ faces leered at prospective customers. The parquet floor shone from years of polishing and the brass rails that guided customers to the counter gleamed aggressively. They were told to wait for the manager. Perhaps, thought Rayne, John Fry had been lying, and no prior contact with the bank had been made at all.

  ‘Mr Brand. Mr Dubois. My sincere apologies!’

  The voice boomed across the length of the hall, causing everyone to turn round. The manager was tall and commanding in his dark suit. Though he looked little more than thirty-five, he nevertheless gave an impression of pomposity. They shook hands and he smiled at them.

  ‘Please, gentlemen, let us go to my office. I apologise for the woman at the counter, she did not know who you were. That will not happen again, I promise. My name is Siva Singh. Would you like tea or coffee?’

  Rayne and Guy both requested coffee, their eyes watching the interior of the bank very closely through the door of the manager’s office. The bank’s working area was full of small desks, each a work-station. At the back the massive doors of the vault were wide open, and people were constantly moving in and out. The bank was clearly very busy.

  ‘You are impressed, Mr Brand?’

  Rayne decided that the best way to get on with this man was to play up to his ego. ‘Er, yes. I had not expected such a massive vault.’

  Mr Singh beamed, pulled out a cigar and lit it reflectively. ‘The vault was brought here by Mr Rhodes, that most excellent Englishman,’ he said, puffing clouds of smoke over his two clients. ‘Mr Rhodes had a dream that he would export his gold through Beira, a dream that unfortunately was never realised - but I still have the vault!’

  Mr Singh’s office was massive, with an enormous oak desk at its centre. At the windows hung blue velvet curtains, and the oak floor was covered with Persian carpets.

  ‘You must run a very profitable bank, Mr Singh?’

  ‘Indeed I do. Even President Machel is jealous, and maybe that is not a bad thing. It has been said that one should always be in awe of one’s banker!’

  ‘But there must be bigger banks in Maputo?’

  Mr Singh looked at Rayne scornfully. ‘I used to live in the capital, our bank was always based there. But after t
he Portu­guese left, it seemed logical to move somewhere a little more discreet. My clients feel that their possessions are a lot safer in Beira than in Maputo, and a lot less visible.’

  ‘I am glad you believe in secrecy, Mr Singh. Usually I deal with one of the Swiss banks, but I now find myself in need of substantial funds. I also need a place to deposit large amounts of cash the moment I receive them.’

  ‘Your money will be perfectly safe in this bank, Mr Brand. We have the best security - the Russian Airforce!’

  Rayne winced visibly at this, but Singh misinterpreted him. ‘Mr Brand, I can assure you that the Russians would never take your money. They have much of their own, and it pays them to have a place of safe custody. I mention them only in the context of security.’

  ‘Please elaborate.’ Rayne sucked in his breath and waited for the bad news.

  ‘It’s quite simple. We always have a guard posted within the bank. In the event of an attempted robbery, he pushes a warning button which alerts our own army, FRELIMO. They then alert the Russians. So anyone who attempts to rob this bank will be taking on an entire army!’

  So an alarm from this bank would be relayed direct to the Russian army, no doubt calling quite a number of troops away from the airfield. John Fry had planned well. Rayne said, ‘Good. Now, I would like to know the balance of my account with you at present.’

  ‘Ten dollars. But I was informed by your Swiss bank that you are good for millions!’

  Rayne tried to stay relaxed. Why had John Fry put so little money into the bank account?

  ‘Did your bank in Zurich deposit less in the account than you’d expected, Mr Brand?’

  ‘No, no, I was thinking about something else. Mr Singh, I will be depositing a large sum soon and that amount of money always makes me feel uneasy when it’s not in Zurich. The day I feel secure is the day I die.’

  Mr Singh’s face took on a reassuring expression. ‘The Russians trust me. They have a large account with me.’ He leaned over the desk and smiled conspiratorially. ‘We have also had another enormous amount of money transferred here, like yours, from a Swiss account. I am waiting for the depositor to contact me.’ Rayne was astonished by Singh’s indiscretion, but was very interested. Who else would want to place large funds in the Bank of Beira?

  ‘Mr Brand,’ Singh went on, ‘I am aware of your line of business. There are no competitors for you here. You have carte blanche.’

  ‘We always pride ourselves on selling the very best. Naturally, if you could provide any leads for us we would be more than grateful. You would of course be the recipient of a commission.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brand. We obviously operate along similar principles! You help me, I help you. In this line of business it is the only way to operate. Do you know Johannesburg, Mr Brand?’

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe no.’

  ‘Ah, I understand. It is just that I am expecting an important visitor from that capital tomorrow. Perhaps you know him?’

  ‘Perhaps I do. What is his name?’

  ‘Mr Aschaar.’

  Rayne was surprised. He knew that Aschaar was the head of one of the biggest mining groups in South Africa, but why was he here?

  ‘I’ve heard of him, but then who hasn’t? Now, if we could get down to business, I’d like to make a withdrawal.’

  ‘How much do you require?’

  ‘Five thousand dollars.’

  Mr Singh lay back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck. ‘We do not give overdrafts.’

  ‘Then forget about any commission you might have thought of earning.’

  ‘I will get it for you. Please wait here.’

  Mr Singh scurried off, returning in a few minutes with a bundle of notes which he handed over to Rayne. Rayne counted them out carefully, then he got up with Guy to go. They both shook hands with Mr Singh.

  ‘We look forward to doing good business with you.’

  ‘Only the best, Mr Brand. Only the very best.’

  Mr Singh closed the door of his office. Alone now, he had time to think. He paced up and down his office, imagining himself ordering the Swiss banks to deliver funds to him. It was nice to be in a position of power.

  These men would be good for business, he could sense it. And his other clients would be most interested in what these two men had to offer, and he could make a tidy forty per cent at least on every transaction. He went over to the large mirror on the wall beside his desk and admired his chubby jowls. Once he’d made some money out of Brand and Dubois he could tell Vorotnikov that they were Rhodesian spies. They wouldn’t last a day after that. Then he could keep all the money they had made for himself.

  He rubbed his hands together. Business, he thought, was far more exciting than sex.

  They sat down in the lounge and ordered two beers.

  ‘Bruce, what’s wrong?’

  Rayne was glad that Guy remembered to use the false name. Fernandes was in earshot.

  ‘I don’t trust that bastard. Mr Singh wouldn’t have bothered to pass the time of day with us if it wasn’t for my Swiss funds. But maybe we can use him to acquire some very useful information.’

  They sipped their beers in silence. The bitter brown liquid tasted good after the heat outside, but Rayne’s mind was in turmoil. The Russians had invited him and Guy to dine with them. Of course he could try to use the opportunity to find out more about the deployment of Russian forces round Beira - but what were the Russians hoping to get out of them? They sure as hell hadn’t invited them to dinner for the pleasure of their company.

  Rayne felt like a man trying to defuse a time bomb, with the fuse ticking away in front of him. The stakes were being raised all the time. What the bloody hell was Fry playing at? He’d promised Rayne there’d be a large deposit waiting for him at the bank. Instead there was virtually nothing. It was as if the CIA man was deliberately trying to abort the mission. If Singh hadn’t agreed to the overdraft he would have been in trouble already. What other surprises did Fry have for him?

  The appearance of Aschaar was another cause for concern. It appeared that there was a bigger picture of which Rayne was unaware. It was like walking through a minefield blindfold.

  What had happened to Lois? He really needed him as a back­up now.

  Rayne forced himself to concentrate on the matters directly at hand. With Larry and Mick safely installed he had to concentrate on how he could get in and out of the bank quickly. If they took too long, they’d all be dead.

  Alexei

  The Lear jet took off from Nairobi airport in the blistering heat. Anyone checking its markings would have found that it was registered in Ireland. Further investigation would have traced the ownership to O’Regan and Son, a small but successful engineer­ing company. Beyond that, however, any investigator would have drawn a total blank.

  Bernard Aschaar was annoyed. It wasn’t that Goldcorp’s operations in Kenya weren’t going well - on the contrary, they couldn’t have been more profitable. The problem was expansion; the Kenyan government wouldn’t let him broaden the scope of his interests any further, and he resented this limitation of his control. Bernard smiled to himself. Never mind. Soon he would be able to bargain with them from a position of unprecedented strength . . . All systems were go for the greatest coup of his life. He had the money Vorotnikov wanted, and all the paperwork: the blueprint for the new Zimbabwean industrial state, and the list of names of all the Rhodesians who had to be eliminated.

  As the plane levelled off, Aschaar looked down at the country below. The Yatta Plateau stretched out into the distance; soon the land would drop away as they neared the coast and passed over Mombasa. Then they would head south, following the east coast of Africa with the island of Madagascar to their immediate left.

  He pulled a sheaf of computer print-outs from his attache case, a series of feasibility studies conducted on the main Rhodesian mines. This was his favourite kind of reading matter. It would keep him well occupied for the rest of the trip.

  Vorotn
ikov smiled as the executive jet came in to land. Mr Bernard Aschaar was as good as his word; he had wondered, just a little, whether the businessman would have the courage to come to Mozambique. Now, once they had tidied up the final details of running Zimbabwe’s essential industries, he could move in quickly. After this, no one would doubt the power of the Soviet Union - and no one would question the Soviets’ allegiance to the underprivileged nations of the world.

  As the plane taxied to a halt he gestured for his chauffeur to drive forward. The side-door of the fuselage opened and a set of steps snaked its way to the ground. Mr Aschaar appeared at the doorway, looked cursorily around him and then walked confi­dently down. Vorotnikov admired the poise and self-assurance of the man.

  ‘Mr Aschaar, I welcome you to Mozambique.’

  ‘Thank you, General. I am most impressed.’ Bernard’s gaze had shifted to the massive shapes under the camouflage sheets to the side of the runway. ‘You are evidently ready to launch your attack. I have my side of the agreement ready too. Our business will not take long.’

  They shook hands, General Vorotnikov showed Aschaar into the car, and the vehicle pulled away the moment the door was closed. Bernard glanced over his shoulder as the car moved off - and the General laughed.

  ‘Mr Aschaar, you have no cause to be concerned!’

  Then he smiled smugly to himself. Aschaar had every cause to be concerned, for he was completely in Russian hands.

  ‘You believe that my safety is in your hands?’

  Aschaar’s question caught the General off balance. It was as if the man had been reading his mind!

  ‘No

  ‘General, I’ve got where I am by looking after myself, and I’m certainly not about to change my operating philosophy now. Let me remind you that every single word that has passed between us over the course of the last year has been taped. I already do extensive business with the Soviet Union through my diamond- mining and diamond-selling operations, and my connections are excellent. So, you pull a fast one on me and you’ll drop like lead through water.’