Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘Independence on Russian terms.’

  Now he was angry. ‘That is why I must stay! I do not want to see the Russians take control. They will be welcome as advisers, nothing more. I fear for my people who have fought for so long and at such a high cost. It is my responsibility to see that they are not betrayed.1

  ‘I’m scared for you, Tongogara. You’re dealing with a great power, I don’t think you can win.’

  The village was quiet outside, only the ordinary sounds of the African night broke the stillness.

  Before he left Tongogara kissed her again - a man caught between his own ideals and the grosser ambitions of power politics. He didn’t stand a chance, she knew.

  Much later, she stepped outside, the night air cool and refreshing after the closeness of the reed hut. At least she was alive, and would stay that way as long as she remained hidden. Just the fact that Tongogara had come to visit her had lifted her spirits. She had made it this far - she would not give up the hope of getting out of Mozambique.

  Sam thought about the powerful nations that had ruled the world through history, how they had all eventually been overrun, their characters completely changed. Would Africa be any differ­ent? She shivered in the evening air, and tried not to think about tomorrow.

  Not far away from where Sam was standing in the darkness, a group of men were spending a far less pleasant, though infinitely more rewarding evening. Michael Strong had leopard-crawled some half a kilometre round the main Beira airfield, laying explosive charges in strategic places. Behind him followed four other men, moving just as silently and purposefully.

  It was a deadly dangerous business on two counts. Firstly, they might be detected by the Russians at any minute, and secondly, they might accidentally set off one of their charges. Each charge had to be carefully buried beneath the ground along with its linking fuse wire. For complete success, all the charges would have to detonate at exactly the same time, and this would turn the runway into a giant, smoking pile of concrete and tarmac. No plane would ever be able to take off.

  Michael desperately wanted a cigarette, but he knew that the red glow of the lighted ash would be almost certain suicide.

  For himself, Michael wouldn’t have dreamed of sabotaging the runway in this manner with a force he didn’t know. It was only because Rayne had hand-picked these men that he was confident they could do the job without detection. Carefully, he attached the wires to another charge.

  Night lay over the Indian Ocean. In the spectacular semi-circular lounge of the villa General Vorotnikov had procured for him, Bernard Aschaar rose, drew deeply on his cigar, and then walked out onto the patio overlooking the sea. The General followed him and they both stared thoughtfully into the night.

  ‘General, we have a saying in business: you must always expect the unexpected. You say you are confident - yet you need the weapons you asked me about. In short, you have a serious problem on your hands just at a time when you should be without problems.’

  The General was about to interrupt, but Bernard held up his hand.

  ‘I have already made contact with Mr Singh. He informs me that there are two men in Beira who are gun-runners. I have further discovered that they have had dinner this evening with two of your senior officers. This is an odd occurrence that I hope does not indicate a breach of security in your ranks.’

  The General smiled, surprising Bernard. ‘Mr Aschaar, I was aware of the arrival of those two men in Beira. However, I was not aware of their business. The two officers to whom you have referred are members of the KGB. They are merely attempting to find out a little more about our friends.’

  ‘You have restored my confidence, General. I should think we could arrange a meeting tomorrow with these men. We’ll see if we can organise the purchase of the assault rifles you need. If they agree, and are genuine, you should not have to wait long for your delivery.’

  Guy and Rayne made it back to the hotel just after midnight. Rayne had the definite impression that their two Russian friends had hoped for rather more information than they’d actually received . . .

  The meal had changed everything. Rayne couldn’t leave Moz­ambique now until he had found Sam. The problem was, he hadn’t a clue where to find the men who’d taken her away from the Russians. Shit, he thought, sitting down on the bed in the peace of his own room, whoever was looking after her was taking one hell of a risk. And there was no way he could find out more without endangering the whole success of his mission.

  He was worried about their cover, his and Guy’s. What the hell would happen if the Russians did approach them for guns? That could put them in a very tight spot.

  He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He did not think he was going to enjoy a very restful night’s sleep.

  Rayne walked slowly up the steps of the Beira yacht club. It was five minutes to ten. At breakfast this morning Fernandes had gleefully passed on General Vorotnikov’s request for a meeting and now, with sweating palms, he was keeping the appointment. He’d decided to come without Guy, and had dressed for the occasion. He wore a navy blue double-breasted blazer and immaculately pressed khaki pants. Around his neck was a cravat, and his hair was slicked back. He was going to act hard, like the man on whom his cover had been based.

  The General was waiting for him at a table close to the edge of the balcony. Behind him, the Indian Ocean stretched to infinity. Pink clouds lay flat across the water, almost obscuring the horizon. Next to the General sat a giant of a man with long, curling black hair and dark Levantine looks. Rayne had never seen a face that reflected such a concentrated expression of power. The man brought a chill to his body.

  He could tell the man was already judging him, carefully sizing him up before the first verbal contact. The man’s hands lay calmly on the table, massive wrists covered in a mat of black hair that disappeared into the chalk-white cuffs of an immaculately tailored shirt. The suit was dark blue, of striking double-breasted cut. Wealth and power, that was the overall impression.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Brand.’

  Rayne was wary of the General, especially in combination with

  this other man. ‘General Vorotnikov, it is a pleasure to meet with you.’

  ‘Let me introduce you to my friend and colleague, Bernard Aschaar.’

  So this was the man the bank manager had mentioned. One of the most powerful of the Johannesburg mining magnates and an international businessman. What was he doing here? Their eyes locked as they shook hands, two men of similar determination.

  ‘Mr Brand, I spoke to Major Sverdelov very late yesterday evening. He is a friend of yours, I believe?’

  So he was right, there had been nothing casual about the dinner. It had been a subtle form of interrogation which they had either passed or failed, depending on the purpose of this morn­ing’s meeting.

  ‘I am sorry, General, I only know two Russians in Beira, one called Carl and the other called Ivan.’

  ‘Ah, it is Carl Sverdelov I am referring to. Our senior officers do not openly boast of their rank, it would be a security risk. Well, we meet on common ground.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you.’

  ‘You are a gun-runner, Mr Brand, and I am a soldier. At this very moment your expertise can solve a problem for me.’

  ‘I’m sure that the Russian army has plenty of its own guns.’

  ‘Mr Brand, I am not trying to trap you. I will be direct. Mr Aschaar is a businessman, he will negotiate for me. I need four thousand assault rifles in ten days’ time.’

  ‘Make?’

  ‘AK-47.’

  ‘Calibre?’

  ‘The 7.62mm cartridge, we are not using the AKS-74 in Africa.’

  ‘You want four thousand - that’s a big order.’

  There was no way he could obtain so many weapons so fast. He would have to stall as much as possible. He thought quickly.

  ‘Considering the size of the consignment, a basic fee of five hundred dollars per rifle would be the pri
ce. Then I would require a deposit - two million dollars immediately. There might also be transportation charges running to another half a million. The time factor is everything, the weapons would have to be flown in.’

  The terms had to be hard, it was his only chance. He was fast getting himself into a very dangerous situation.

  ‘We would give you half a million up front, that’s all.’

  ‘I have not yet agreed to supply the arms, Mr Aschaar, do not start defining the terms. Do you have any idea how difficult it is

  to obtain such weapons? I could only deal with you on the basis of a hundred per cent payment up front. I’m sure that as a businessman you must understand my position.’

  ‘Ridiculous!’ Aschaar sneered, one eyebrow raised. ‘You’ll take the money and disappear.’

  ‘I think that our conversation is at an end.’ Rayne got up from the table and began to walk away. He wondered if he’d over­played his hand. He had half crossed the balcony when he heard Aschaar’s voice, as he had expected.

  ‘All right, Mr Brand, I accept your terms. But I need some sort of guarantee.’

  Rayne returned to the table and sat down again. Now Aschaar was far more amicable. ‘Mr Brand, I apologise. I should have asked you if you would like a drink?’

  ‘Coffee.’

  Aschaar gestured to a waiter while the General made polite conversation.

  ‘You like Beira, Mr Brand?’

  ‘No. It is a place for business, not for pleasure.’

  Rayne saw the furrow on the General’s brow deepen. He said, ‘I have a grudging acceptance of the way things operate on this continent, but you must admit this is a desperate place.’

  ‘We have not had an easy time here, Mr Brand. We have given much and received little in return.’

  You have given nothing and taken everything, ayne thought. ‘An unrewarding business, General. I like to see results for hard work.’

  ‘In politics the immediate rewards may not seem attractive, but the long-term gains more than make up.’

  Rayne felt it was time to cut the chat and get down to business in earnest. The less time he spent in the company of these men, the better.

  ‘I have a proposal, Mr Aschaar. If you have the money here in Beira, then payment can be a relatively simple affair - Mr Singh the banker and I discussed such an arrangement only yesterday. What I suggest is this: you pay the two million dollars into my account, and Mr Singh will only transfer it to an account I have nominated in another country once he is certain the shipment has arrived. If I fail to perform, you get the money and the interest back.’

  ‘And what if you and Mr Singh have concluded a little deal on the side?’

  ‘Knowing your power and influence, Mr Aschaar, I hardly think that Mr Singh would like to cross you - or the Soviet Union. One must always choose one’s adversaries with care.’

  Rayne sipped his coffee, trying to stop himself from shaking. He wanted to get away. Aschaar spoke again.

  ‘Mr Brand, if this deal goes through successfully, I hope to be able to do more business with you in the future. How do I get hold of you?’

  Rayne put down his coffee, reflecting on Aschaar’s craftiness. ‘We do good business. Unfortunately I have always had a policy of making the first contact. I do not divulge personal details or contact numbers. When you need me again, I will get hold of you.’

  ‘A strange way of doing business!’

  ‘A good way of staying alive, Mr Aschaar.’ Rayne got up to leave. ‘We will start the moment Mr Singh has the full amount. Two and a half million dollars, Mr Aschaar.’

  Aschaar jumped up, knocking his chair backwards. Rayne reacted instantly, ready for action, balanced on his feet like a cat. But Aschaar’s hands remained at his side.

  ‘I thought you said the last half million was a ball-park figure depending on the cost of transportation?’

  ‘In the course of our discussion I realised I would have problems with you on that. Two and a half million is my price, take it or leave it.’ And Rayne sincerely hoped that Aschaar would leave it.

  ‘This will take time to approve,’ the General said angrily. ‘Time I have plenty of. Your answer will be the amount deposited with Mr Singh.’

  Aschaar sat back. The look in his eyes did not make Rayne feel in the least bit easy. He left the yacht club, earnestly hoping that Aschaar would not come forward with the money.

  Unfortunately the answer was in the foyer of the Hotel Beira when he arrived back. Fernandes was waiting for him. ‘Mr Singh says you must phone him, it is most urgent.’

  Rayne was through to Singh in less than a minute.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Brand. You are already doing very well. I am holding two and a half million dollars. It will be transferred to your Swiss account the moment I have ascertained that the goods have arrived intact.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Singh. Thank you very much.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Aschaar?’

  ‘He’s a strange character, this Bruce Brand. Not what I had been expecting at all. He’s far too tough for my liking. He’ll deliver, I’m sure of it, but don’t you think it’s a bit too much of a coincidence that he should be here just when we want him? Whoever he is, I’d like his background checked out.’

  ‘It has already been done and found to be completely clean. Well, clean is not perhaps the right word, but let us say he lives up to his formidable reputation. Do you not think he asked an outrageous amount for the weapons?’

  ‘Yes. Naturally, he won’t be paid, I simply told Singh to lie to him. If he has any sense he’ll get out of here fast. I still want him watched as closely as possible, but we must be careful not to upset him - I wouldn’t like the supply of the rifles to be affected in any way.’

  ‘The moment I get them we can start full mobilisation of all our ground forces. I hear that the British are even intending to bring out their own policemen to oversee the Rhodesian elec­tions! Mugabe assures me that he will win, but I don’t believe him. There is no place in my plans for calculated guesswork; the result I require can only be achieved by an invasion. The new Zimbabwe without the Beira Corridor is worthless.’

  ‘We are of one mind, General. There’s nothing to worry about; elections or not, the people are still clamouring for blood. In a few weeks’ time they’ll have it - and we shall achieve our objective.’

  Rayne sat on the balcony of his room, sipping a beer. He asked himself what the hell the formidable Mr Aschaar was doing in Mozambique? It didn’t make sense. Why was he having morning tea with a Russian general? Whatever the answer to these questions might be, there was obviously a larger and more sinister plan in operation than the one John Fry had outlined to him.

  As he thought about it, it began to make more and more sense. The Russians would be able to link up the two countries and make them far stronger. The crippled Mozambican economy could be propped up with the Rhodesian one and the latter could use the former’s ports. The next stage was predictable: the severing of all ties with South Africa and the declaration of unity with the African National Congress. But where did Bernard Aschaar fit in with that scenario? There must be even more to the whole plan.

  Whatever Aschaar had in mind, he wasn’t going to get very far. Not if Rayne could help it.

  ‘You fucking bastard! You fucking, fucking bastard!’ Lois fell off the side of the chopper into the sand and lay face down, sobbing. There was nothing more he could do. It was over. Captain Gallagher would hate him for ever.

  Everything had gone wrong. On the Saturday afternoon he’d taken the chopper for a final test flight. After flying out over the sea he’d been coming in towards the beach when the engine started to cut out. Everything he tried had failed. The engine would appear to pick up, then suddenly lose power again.

  Desperately he’d wrestled with the controls, terrified that he was going to smash down into the sand. Somehow, he’d managed to bring the chopper down just above the high-tide mark. He staggered out and rested on the beach
for over an hour before he tried to fix the engine.

  Lois had thought the malfunction would be easy enough to find. Probably some dirt in the fuel lines, he had told himself. But, as the sun set on Saturday evening, he’d realised it wasn’t going to be that simple. Fortunately he had a rat-pack with enough food and water to last him for two days. He hadn’t slept that first night. He’d thought about what Captain Gallagher would do when he came to the farmhouse and found it empty. No chopper. No Lois.

  That had been two days ago. Due to his own foresight, he had a full set of tools and the workshop manual with him, and he’d worked and worked, dismantling a section of the fuel supply system, and then other parts of the engine. Sand blew constantly over the machine, and combined with the salt spray from the sea to cover the whole thing in a sticky crust of dirt.

  Now it was the third day. He knew time was against him, but he would not abandon the chopper. He’d run out of water the day before, and he’d had to get some water this morning by sinking a container into the sand and stretching some plastic sheeting over it, then weighting it in the centre with a stone so that when the early morning dew formed on the inside of the sheet, it rolled down into the container. That had provided half a cup of rather brackish water.

  He was sure that the chopper’s problem was a blockage somewhere in the fuel supply system; he’d been too hasty in filling the tanks and should have taken more care to double-filter all the fuel. The battery was getting tired now, too. There was nothing more he could try. Anyway, he was all in.

  He got up out of the sand, crawled back to the cockpit and searched around in the storage containers inside. Eventually he found what he was looking for. He pulled himself into the pilot’s seat with the pistol on his lap.