Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  ‘I’ll get some wine,’ said Sonja, ‘and we’ll drink to the destruction of Bernard Aschaar and all his works.’

  There would be no sunset in Johannesburg that evening. At six o’clock the sky was packed with dark cloud, the air was hot and heavy. City workers, making their way home, looked up now

  and then in the expectation of rain, but the threatening storm obstinately refused to break.

  In his office at the top of the Goldcorp Building, Bernard Aschaar felt uneasy, he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was because he had come so close to death in the plane when he left Beira. But he had genuine cause to worry, as he well knew. His sources in Mozambique had informed him that the attack on the airport and the fuel depot could not have been mounted from Rhodesia - so who was behind it? His sources had also told him about the raid on the Beira bank and the disappearance of the agreement he had signed with Vorotnikov ... He had the uncomfortable sense of another force, a power he did not know about, working behind the scenes, and he did not like it at all. He would have to be on his guard.

  A tall blonde woman in a skin-tight dress walked into the room.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Mr Aschaar?’

  Bernard ran his eyes over her for the twentieth time that day. Jay had said she was ‘a good lay’. ‘No thank you, Rae. You can go now. And you’re clear about your duties next week, aren’t you?’

  ‘I think so, Mr Aschaar. May I wish you a pleasant trip?’ She gave him the full benefit of her smile.

  ‘Indeed you may. Good night.’

  This evening, Bernard was going to London for a week. As soon as he’d seen O’Keefe’s agent, the helicopter would pick him up from the roof of the building and take him to the airport in time for the nine-thirty flight.

  Alone again, Bernard got up and walked to the window. Below him Johannesburg was bathed in the lurid light of the approach­ing storm. He wanted control of this city - control of it through its most precious and revered property, gold, the yellow metal that had fascinated men for centuries. If it had been just a question of money, he would have bought control years ago - but certain people refused to be bought. Here perhaps was another source of his unease: Sonja Seyton-Waugh and her association with Major-General Deon de Wet.

  Aschaar had sensed de Wet was trouble from the moment he started investigating the theft of the photographs from his house. According to Muller, he was an honest cop on a moral crusade - nothing more dangerous. After he’d had Pieter de Wet mur­dered, Deon had seemed to get the message for a time, and stayed quiet. But it hadn’t lasted long. He’d been harassing the Goldcorp Group in general, and Bernard in particular, whenever there was the least opportunity; and Bernard was sure that it was Deon who was giving Sonja the courage to resist his blackmail threats. It was all thoroughly unsettling.

  Bernard turned restlessly from the window and walked back to his desk. He’d ring General Muller, have a word with him about stepping up security. He’d been meaning to do it for some time, anyway. He picked up the phone and dialled the General’s home number.

  ‘Hallo, Piet, it’s Bernard here. How are things . . . ? I want to talk to you about security, Piet. I’m going away tonight, for a week or so, and I’d like to have a word with you before I go. Can you come here, about eight-fifteen this evening?’

  Bernard paused, to let Muller tell him at some length that most unfortunately he had a prior engagement. ‘No, Piet,’ said Bernard when he had finished, ‘I’m quite sure that in fact you will be able to come, and I shall look forward to seeing you in a couple of hours’ time.’

  There was a short silence on the other end of the line, then Muller said shortly that he’d be there. Bernard put the phone down with a smile. He had enough dirt on the General to make him dance to any tune he chose.

  Through the big plate-glass windows the sky now had a bruised and angry look. Bernard viewed the worsening weather with concern.

  There was a knock on the door, and a man in pilot’s uniform entered. ‘Mr Aschaar, I just came to tell you that I’ll be ready for take-off from eight-thirty onwards.’

  ‘What about the storm?’

  ‘Naturally, if the rain’s very heavy I’ll wait a bit before take­off. But it shouldn’t trouble us otherwise, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you later, then.’

  When the pilot had left the room, Bernard went to the wall and pushed a button concealed at the side of one of the panels. Immediately a large safe was revealed. He typed in the electronic combination number and the door was open within seconds. He counted out R500,000 in used notes.

  That, he thought, would be more than enough to bring Sir George’s lackey round to his own way of thinking. He closed the safe and the panel, placing the money in an antique silver box on a side-table. Then he sat down at his desk and opened the file on the take-over of Sir George’s mining interests. Pleasant to contemplate the further expansion of his empire; there could be no happier way of passing the next couple of hours.

  Outside the windows of his office, the storm clouds continued to gather, but still it did not rain.

  On the very top floor of the Goldcorp Building, the Goldens, father and son, faced each other.

  Jay said, ‘What I want, Father, is that you should sack Bernard Aschaar.’

  Max Golden stared across the desk at his son. He said nothing. Jay swallowed hard. He was still standing in front of the desk - his father had not asked him to sit down. He went on, ‘When we met in London, Father, you said you’d think of handing the company over to me at the end of the year as long as I didn’t make any mistakes. Well - ’ he paused, and stared defiantly at the man across the desk - ‘I think I’ve done pretty well, and now I think it’s time I had my reward.’

  An evil smile crossed Max Golden’s face, and he gestured for Jay to sit down. The stormy red light, reflected in the office’s huge windows, cast an eerie glow across the old man’s face.

  ‘Forgive me if I’m wrong,’ he said, ‘but didn’t you tell me then, when I saw you in London, that Sonja Seyton-Waugh was as good as finished?’

  ‘Well, yes, Father, but - ’

  ‘I don’t see any sign of her being finished, Jay, do you? Have you got those photographs from Bernard, as you promised me you would?’

  ‘I haven’t yet, but - ’

  ‘And that policeman who’s on our backs all the time - de Wet, isn’t it? Major-General de Wet? - didn’t you tell me then that it was only a matter of days before you had him eliminated?’

  ‘Father - ’

  ‘And has he been eliminated, Jay, or is he still making all our lives a misery?’

  ‘But - ’

  ‘And finally, Jay, what of Bernard himself? In London you told me he was finished. Your very words. But he isn’t finished, is he? Far from it.’

  Jay’s face was haggard. He said nothing.

  ‘You see,’ said Max Golden, ‘I’m afraid I think very highly of Bernard’s abilities. I think, dear son of mine, that he’d run this company very well.’

  Jay shuddered, and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I see I have to act,’ he said.

  Max Golden walked to the window, looking across at the thunderclouds. ‘The day of reckoning, Jay,’ he said. ‘The day of reckoning.’

  Everyone

  They entered the front entrance of the Goldcorp Building and stopped at the front security desk for clearance.

  ‘I’m afraid I only have clearance for one person from Sir George O’Keefe,’ said the security man.

  Rayne said, ‘These two friends of mine would like to wait in reception, please - ’ indicating Sam and Lois - ‘the other three of us are going up.’

  The security man looked at the little group in front of him. He knew the type - tough men, beautiful women, expensive cars, expensive tastes. They often came to the upper level offices in the evening - no doubt they’d be going out on the town with Mr Aschaar and young Mr Golden when they’d finished their busi­ness. Mr Aschaar hated bei
ng troubled unnecessarily; it might be more than his job was worth if he made a fuss.

  He said half-heartedly, ‘I told you, I only have clearance for one.’

  Rayne came back sharply. ‘Put me through to Mr Aschaar, then.’

  The security man gave in. ‘All right, sir, the three of you can go up. Just remember to tell Mr Aschaar that you were registered as a group, if he should ask.’

  They got into the private lift and Deon pushed the button for level 2.

  ‘Isn’t Aschaar on the top floor?’ said Rayne.

  ‘No, that’s reserved for old man Golden. Aschaar’s the next rung down. Still, he can’t complain, he has most of the second level to himself.’

  ‘Is there any other way out of the building?’

  ‘Just the fire escape.’

  The lift stopped at the second level and they all walked out into the white-tiled reception area. Through the huge windows Rayne stared out at the storm that was just beginning to erupt. The lightning flashes were more frequent now, and the skyline was thrown into relief with every burst of silver light. Water droplets crowded on the giant sheet of glass, smeared across it by the strength of the wind. At forty-six floors they were higher up than any other office building in Johannesburg.

  They walked into the reception area and waited for Aschaar to appear. At precisely eight o’clock he walked through the door. Deon he did not know, but he recognised Rayne and Sonja instantly. He stood his ground, legs apart, smiling.

  ‘You. What are you doing here? I have a business appoint­ment. Get out of this building, Mr Brand, or I’ll have to call the police.’

  Aschaar’s use of the pseudonym immediately brought memories of Beira flooding back to Rayne. He remembered especially how Aschaar had looked on calmly while Vorotnikov ordered his arrest. He spoke harshly, making the strength of his determina­tion clear.

  ‘Your meeting is with me, Mr Aschaar. The name Brand was a cover while I was operating in Mozambique. I’m Captain Rayne Gallagher, and I’m representing Sir George O’Keefe. Let me introduce my two associates. Miss Seyton-Waugh, who I think you know, and Major-General Deon de Wet.’

  Aschaar stared at them coldly. The reality of Aschaar, here, was as frightening as it had been in Beira. Rayne felt a growing sense of unease. The plan had seemed so simple when he outlined it in the comfortable confines of Sonja’s house. Now they were here, on Aschaar’s territory, and he did not feel that they were completely in control of the situation.

  ‘Come through to my office,’ Bernard said quietly. He turned his back on them and headed down a passage, and they followed him into a spacious room, sumptuously furnished.

  Aschaar sat down at his desk and looked at them. What were Sonja Seyton-Waugh and Deon de Wet doing with this Rayne Gallagher? And how the hell had Gallagher got out of the hands of the Russians? He did not believe for a moment that what they were going to discuss had anything to do with the O’Keefe deal. He’d been set up.

  Sonja looked round her at the opulent decor. She hated it - she hated being here. They should not be meeting Aschaar on his own ground - it was a mistake to come. She looked anxiously across at Deon.

  Bernard saw Sonja’s discomfiture and smiled. He was secure. He had them, so to speak, at his mercy.

  ‘Mr Aschaar,’ Rayne said. ‘When you met me in Beira I was working for the CIA, putting an end to your carefully orches­trated invasion plans. But our relationship goes further back than that. I expect you’ve forgotten the time you had Sir George O’Keefe’s plane sabotaged in an attempt to kill his daughter. I happened to be on board too. And the engineer you bribed to do the job is prepared to testify to your complicity.’

  Momentarily disconcerted, Bernard recovered his wits and smiled again. He couldn’t quite believe their stupidity. What were they expecting him to do? Hand himself over to the police?

  ‘Mere supposition. I expect you bought the engineer as easily as I’m supposed to have done.’ Bernard gave a dismissive flourish of his hands.

  Deon stepped forward, his hatred of Aschaar rising to the surface. ‘You are a traitor to this country. Rayne has the document you signed with Vorotnikov from the bank in Beira - is that bought testimony, Mr Aschaar? I’d call it treason, and I can tell you, so would any South African court of law.’

  Rayne could see that Aschaar was suddenly trembling with rage. ‘Get out of my office,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  ‘There’s more, and we’re not going anywhere.’ Deon said icily. ‘For example, Mr Aschaar. I investigated a robbery at your house. The safe in the main bedroom was still open and I found certain articles there.’

  ‘And you took them away and are guilty of robbery, Major- General. I should think you were in enough trouble already without admitting to that.’ It was amazing how swiftly Bernard had regained control of his emotions.

  ‘I should think you wouldn’t want the films and pictures I found in your safe used as evidence in court.’

  Bernard raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Am I in these pictures you planted in my safe?’

  ‘No. But Sonja is, and she saw you taking them.’

  Bernard looked at Sonja with contempt in his eyes. ‘Am I supposed to object if some woman insists on taking her clothes off in front of me?’

  Sonja stared at him without fear. ‘Don’t try that on me, Bernard. You and Jay are the lowest class of humankind. You’re finished.’

  Deon pressed on. ‘Miss Seyton-Waugh was your victim. Then you did the same thing to your secretary, Helen. We have Helen, Mr Aschaar. She’ll take a long time to recover from the drugs you pumped into her, but she’ll testify against you and Jay in court.’

  ‘So it was you who wrote that blackmail note?’ Bernard said softly.

  ‘Correct.’ Deon paused. ‘And there’s one more thing. You had my brother murdered.’

  Bernard allowed a faint expression of reproach to cross his face. ‘Oh, you’re wrong there, de Wet, I do assure you.’

  Deon’s control snapped. He whipped forward and hammered his fist into Aschaar’s face. As the blood slowly began to trickle down his top lip, Deon ground out, ‘And now I’m going to put you where you belong, Mr Aschaar. You’re under arrest.’

  Bernard lay back in his chair as if overcome. Before they could react, he had pushed backwards against the desk with his feet and, still sitting, shot through the doors behind him.

  As Sonja, Rayne and Deon charged after him, he was on his feet and opening a cupboard in the wall of the next office. He pulled out a pump shotgun, and before they could draw their own weapons, he had them covered. Then he moved forward and grabbed Sonja, forcing the barrel of the shotgun into her jaw.

  ‘Put your guns down or the lady dies.’

  As Rayne and Deon, very quiet now, threw their weapons onto the marble floor, there was a sudden noise behind them. Bernard turned Sonja round, forcing the metal barrel so hard into her jaw that tears ran from her eyes.

  Jay walked into the room. He stared at them.

  ‘What the hell’s going on!’

  ‘Why don’t you act out your little part, Jay?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The discussion your father had with you an hour ago. Do you think I don’t know everything that goes on in these offices? Now, over there with the rest of them.’

  Running, Jay made for the door. The explosion from the shotgun was deafening. He lay on the floor, his left leg a mass of blood and bone.

  ‘Jesus, Bernard!’

  ‘One more move and I’ll blow your head off!’

  Rayne felt the sweat trickling down his forehead. The speed of Bernard’s reactions, the ease with which he handled his weapon, were frightening. Deon had been right: this was a man to be reckoned with.

  Bernard flashed another smile at his enemies.

  ‘Now you have all had your say about me, I’d like to tell you a few home truths. What a pathetic show you’d make in the witness box, wouldn’t you? A cop with a predilection for pornographic pictu
res’ - his eyes went to Deon - ‘who’s divorced his wife and is having an affair with a nymphomaniac. And you, Rayne Gallagher, a soulless mercenary who is also a gun-runner.’

  He tightened his grip on Sonja’s arm so that she screamed out in agony. Then he gestured for Rayne and Deon to kneel on the floor while he sat down on the edge of a desk, Sonja still clamped firmly in the crook of his left arm.

  ‘I know more about you two than you know about yourselves. Who shall I start with? Yes, Deon de Wet. Your father was a successful attorney, wasn’t he, Major-General? He made a lot of money and your family lived in the lap of luxury. Then things went wrong, but you never knew why, did you, de Wet. Well, now I’ll tell you. Your father made the stupid mistake of having an affair with Mr Golden’s mistress - and Max Golden doesn’t like interference in his private concerns any more than I do, and so he broke your father as easily as a little boy snaps a twig. Remember being turned down for that law bursary at Witwatersrand, de Wet? That was what finally got to your father, wasn’t it? Did you know that of all the applicants you had the highest marks and the best academic record? But of course that hardly counted when Mr Golden was head of the board of governors and turned you down personally.’

  Deon felt his spirit crushed. In the end he had come to believe their lies, believe his own father guilty of dishonesty and fraud.

  ‘Your father knew the truth, de Wet. That’s why he shot himself. Not a strong man. - No, don’t be so stupid as to try anything or I’ll remove part of your lady friend’s face.’

  Bernard pushed the shotgun into Sonja’s mouth so that a trickle of blood ran down her jaw. Ignoring Jay, who was clutching his leg in agony, he bent his gaze on Rayne.

  ‘And you, Rayne Gallagher, the man who turned his back on a successful career as an advocate^ Why was that? Because you killed a man in a rugby match, wasn’t it? What a tragedy! Shall I tell you what really happened? As you perhaps know, the man you killed was Tom Rudd, second son of Tony Rudd, the mining magnate. Goldcorp has long-term plans for taking over the Rudd empire, Captain Gallagher. We turned the first son into a drug addict, but we didn’t want the second son to inherit either, so when it was discovered that Tom Rudd had a serious congenital weakness of the upper spine, we blackmailed the consultant into silence and he let the silly bugger carry on playing rugby. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened, and Tom Rudd broke his neck. Clever, don’t you think?’