by Steve Reeder
“It’s complicated, but the short story is the Tommy killed some drug-dealer and the cops came calling.”
Bomber knocked on the office door. “Mr Botha,” he asked the manager. “I need to make a quick phone call. Would you mind?”
Botha sighed with obvious irritation and indicated the single desk with a telephone sitting on it. He dropped the clipboard onto the desk and muttered something about coffee before disappearing through a doorway. Bomber got a quick flash of a kettle and some cups on a table before the door swung partially shut. Quickly he dialled Tanya’s home number, hoping that she’d be back in Durban already. The phone rang once before she picked it up. The conversation was brief and Bomber put the phone down with words of love, and demands of caution ringing in his ears. He could hear Botha pouring boiling water into a mug. Tracing the phone line back from the instrument on the desk, Bomber found that it led into a junction box on the wall near the floor. Checking to make sure Botha was still busy, he took a firm hold on the cable running into the junction box and pulled as hard as he could. The cable came out first time. Bomber took a second to push the cable back into the box and hoped that no-one would investigate the cause of the dead phone too closely for a while. Cole’s instructions had been clear; make sure we have at least fifteen minutes extra to get clear, just in case.
Twenty Two
December. Durban.
It had been three months since Bomber had phoned her, two months since the news channels had last mentioned Bomber or the others, and Tanya had all but given up hope of ever hearing from any of them again when out of the blue a parcel arrived in the post. It was brown paper wrapped around a box of some sort and measured six inches by four inches and perhaps an inch deep. It was about the size, shape and weight of a book, and indeed there was a label stating that the contents were, in fact, a book.
Tanya took it through to her bedroom and laid it on her bed, images of Bomber as she had last seen him the railway station, and the image of him naked on that very bed, flashed through her mind. She turned the parcel over, looking for the post-marks. It had been posted in Zambia ten days before. She found that her breathing had become rapid and uneven and her fingers were shaking slightly. Bomber, she whispered, as she tore the paper from the contents. Soon she was left holding a copy of a hard-cover novel by an author that she had never heard of before. She opened the book and let of a gasp of amazement. The inside had been hollowed out and a small clear plastic bank money-bag lay within. The bag contained perhaps a hundred and fifty small uncut diamonds, or at least she assumed that they were diamonds. They looked more like pebbles which she conceded they were. Frantically she searched for a written message. When she found one she quickly opened the folded note. She tried to recall if she had ever seen Bomber’s handwriting, but couldn’t. She read the note. ‘Tanya, please put this somewhere safe. I’ll be seeing you when I can. Not sure how long it will be though.’ It was unsigned. She lay back and clutched the note to her chest and sobbed. Bomber? Was it you?
The second parcel arrived two weeks later and contained another cut-out hardcover novel, this time by Gavin Lyle; she remembered reading a paperback copy of it years before. The contents were the same; uncut diamonds. Tanya searched but there was no note this time. She checked the post-mark. It had been posted in Zambia as well. Carefully she hid the diamonds and disposed of the disfigured book. The third parcel arrived two weeks after that, this time posted from Bulawayo in Southern Zimbabwe. It was like the first two and but still no letter. Tanya flung herself onto her bed and wept. Two more parcels arrived in the post at periodic intervals and on the tenth of November of 1983 a fifth parcel had arrived, this time containing a short note saying that this was the last of them and that he, whoever he was, would see her in the new year. Tanya had convinced herself that the man sending her the diamonds was not Bomber. She no longer cried for him; he was dead and that was that, she thought. Soon she would find out who had survived and she would give him the diamonds, and then perhaps she could get on with her life and forget them all.
A week later she decided that it was time to find somewhere more secure to keep the precious stones. Waiting until her mother had left for work, she unpacked the shoe boxes and vanity cases that contained the other four packets. She was surprised to see how big a pile they made when stacked together in the middle of her bed. A bank safety deposit box was the best idea she could think of. She removed three stones from one of the packets, slipped them into a pocket of her denims and hid the others under her pillow. By the time she had taken the lift down to the underground parking and backed her scooter out of its narrow bay she could feel the stones seemingly burning against her thigh. She tried hard not to keep touching the pocket, afraid that someone would know what she had and challenge her right to have them, or worse, mug her and steal them. The trip into the heart of Durban took no longer than a few minutes, diving between lanes of irate drivers in company-cars. The information desk at the main Standard Bank Branch assured her that they did indeed have safety deposit boxes, and there were several available.
“How much are they?” she wanted to know.
The assistant manage told her what the fee would be for keeping a box for six months and for a year. “If you would still want to keep it after a year then we can make an arrangement,” he told her.
“A year will be fine,” she said, “I will be back tomorrow with something I need stored, if that is okay with you.”
He agreed that it was just peachy.
Leaving her scooter parked where it was, Tanya hurried along Pine Street and eventually down to the beachfront road where her uncle Albert operated his jewellery store. She could hear the waves crashing onto the beach seventy yards away. Seagulls hovered and swooped to snatch edible bits left by beach-goers. Tanya sighed and wished that she was spending the day on the sand soaking up the sun. A bell tinkled as she entered Uncle Albert’s store.
“Where on Earth did you get these, Tanya?” Albert exclaimed. “They are beautiful and worth quite a bit, but you are not legally allowed to have uncut diamonds in your possession!”
“Uncle Albert, I can’t tell you, and please don’t tell mom,” she begged.
Albert looked at his niece with a serious and solemn expression. “Tanya, this can get you into a lot of trouble, you know that, don’t you?”
Tanya nodded miserably. “Please, Uncle Albert, can you buy them or arrange to sell them? You are licenced to handle rough diamonds aren’t you?”
“Yes I am. Not many jewellers are, but I am. People will want to know where I got them from though. And by people I mean the authorities.”
Tanya did not reply, her eyes silently pleading with her late father’s brother until he sighed loudly and said, “All right, I know a prospector who lives on the Orange River. If anyone asks I’ll say that stones come from him. He brings me stones on rare occasions. He’s never brought me anything like these though.” He studied them again under the magnifying glass. “Will there be any more?” he asked finally.
Tanya hesitated. “Yes, about nine hundred.”
“How many?” Albert gasped. “Bloody hell, girl! Are you mad? What have - ” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Oh jeez. These are those diamonds that were in the news earlier in the year, aren’t they? The Angolans are claiming that the South African army had stolen them from a government bank?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Uncle - ”
He held up his hand to stop her. “Wait right there,” he demanded and stood up, went around to the customer area, checked that no-one was in the store and slammed the front door shut and locked it, remembering to flip the sign around to read ‘closed’. He hurried back and sat at his desk again. “Tell me everything, and I mean everything!” he demanded.
Tanya left the jewellery store two hours later with enough money to pay for a year’s rent of the deposit box and plenty more. She had told her uncle everything, weeping as she expressed fears that Bomber was dead. The older man cried with her, for her, a
nd offered her a scotch. A weight felt like it had now been taken from her shoulders; Uncle Albert would handle everything. A contact in London would take the stones and probably a twenty-five percent cut and the money would be made available for whoever turned up to collect it. Albert had insisted that he would take a twenty percent cut for his trouble and would give her half of that, but she didn’t want it. He said nothing; he’d keep it for her anyway. The girl didn’t seem to realise just how much a ten percent of this fortune was going to be.
The next day the diamonds were hidden safely at the bank while the CIA, the South African government and a corrupt Angolan Cabinet Minister were tearing people’s lives apart trying to find them. The media had consigned the story to the middle pages until something happened to grab their interest again.
January came and went with no word from him and Tanya began to worry. When March arrived without any contact she began to fear the worst. She tried to ignore the problem or at least create a compartment in her mind where she could store the worry and only visit it when she was alone with her thoughts. Bomber was gone, of that she was sure, but had the unnamed sender of the stones also now been killed or captured too?
Twenty Three
February 1983. Lusaka, Zambia.
“Inspector, the desk sergeant wants to know what to do with this.” Like all Zambian police he spoke English when addressing a senior officer.
Chief Inspector Mantashe set aside the report that he was working on. “What is it, Constable?”
“It is the envelope that has been sitting in the evidence room, Sir; The one that the prosecutors did not come and collect.”
Mantashe sighed with irritation and took the envelope from his constable. It was a brown and non-descript, A4 in size, and did not seem to have much in it. He looked at the seal, which was unbroken. He was tempted to open it and find out what the contents were, but he sure that it was against the law. After all, it was evidence for a trial in the Southern Zambian High Court.
“This trial is over, isn’t it?” he asked the young policeman.
“Yes, Sir. It was over in one day and the judge sent the white man to prison for three years for entering the country illegally, and having an AK47 rifle.”
“I imagine that most of the three years was for the rifle,” the Inspector said. “The prosecutor never asked for this evidence?”
“No, Sir. He said that he did not need it, and besides, it seemed to have no bearing on the case.”
Mantashe read the address on the front of the envelope. There was no return address on the back though. “Do we know this woman in Durban?” he asked.
“No, Sir.” The constable fidgeted in the office doorway, his curiosity growing. He wished that the desk sergeant had simply allowed him to open the envelope. “What shall we do with it, Sir?”
The inspector scratched his chin and thought about it for a long drawn out minute before making up his mind. “Tell the sergeant to take some money from the petty cash and put some stamps on it, and then put it in the post,” he told the disappointed constable. “Perhaps this poor woman is expecting that man to bring it to her and now he can’t, at least for another three years. Better if she has the envelope.” He handed the slim envelope back to the younger man who shut the office door firmly, showing his disappointment. “Perhaps,” the inspector said quietly to himself, “we should really contact this girl and ask if she knows the white man’s name.”
The phone at his right hand rang shrilly; a murder in the city centre – the envelope and the unnamed white prisoner were quickly forgotten.
Twenty Four
April 1983. Bulawayo, Zimbabwe.
‘Richard Bannock and Son Jewellers’ had an address in Seventh Avenue, Bulawayo. It had been there for fifty-two years, and three generations of Bannocks had owned the store, selling young lovers diamond rings to cement their life together and gold jewellery to middle age men to adorn their young mistresses with. Buying and selling of gem stones of all values had been a valuable business for the Bannock men since the first day that old man Ben Bannock had arrived in the city with a handful of rough diamonds dug up by himself with a partner on a steam-bed in the far east of the country. People had only given up asking where the partner was when Ben had married the daughter of the Town Clerk and celebrated the wedding on the fourth anniversary of Bannock Jeweller’s first, and as it turned out only store.
Fifty-two years of continuous trading ended the moment that Richard Bannock made a fatal mistake. When the young South African man had handed over the five rough diamonds Bannock had produced a pistol instead of the promised cash. Moments later the young man scooped up the diamonds, searched Bannock’s pockets for the money – found in the inside pocket of the stylish and very expensive jacket – and left the pistol lying on the floor beside the dead Zimbabwean Jeweller. The body was found the next morning when the current Mrs Bannock returned home from her boyfriend’s apartment and discovered that her husband had not been home all night. Believing that he was at the house of his mistress and might be finally leaving her, she had rushed the store to clean out the safe and cash register.
Her husband’s killer was never caught, even though he was standing in a queue not far away in the main Bulawayo Post Office while the homicide detectives scoured the jewellery store for clues.
Twenty Five
June 1983. Durban.
“Man, I’ll be glad to finish this year and get a job!” Tanya realised the young man was addressing her. “A normal nine-hour day and no more studying will seem like heaven to me.” They had just left the lecture hall at the University of Natal where she had just started studying for her BCom law degree. Tanya smiled but said nothing. She knew this was leading to yet another invitation to drinks, maybe a party and who knows, ‘if all goes well then a roll in the hay’. But she wasn’t interested. She smiled vaguely again, then turned and walked away.
“Hey, come on, Tanya, don’t be such a downer!” She knew him and his type; next he would get all insulted and angry with her. She stepped up her pace. “Fucking lesbo, if you ask me,” she heard him mutter, making sure she would hear him.
She crossed the street and was almost at the corner when there was a sudden sound of a scuffle from behind her. “What the f - ” she heard the young man yelp. The exclamation of pain was cut off by another blow. She didn’t turn around. Feeling slightly panicky, she almost broke into a trot. There was another thud followed by several voices of protest from bystanders, but she was now around the corner and heading to where she had chained her scooter.
“Tanya, wait!” There was the sound of someone running after her.
She fumbled with the padlock, missing the key slot several times before the key slid home.
“Tanya, wait,” the voice cried again. It wasn’t the randy student this time; different voice, an older and more mature man. The key turned and the lock was open. She slid the chain off the scooter and flung it into her back-pack, cramming her helmet onto her head she jabbed the starter button, kicked it into first gear and turned right, heading for the exit. Suddenly he was in front of her, blocking her way. She recognised him immediately.
“Oh my God,” she cried. “It’s you!”
“Please,” she begged him, “Tell me what happened?”
He sat the half-finished cup of tea down on the table between them and collected his thoughts. So much had happened since they had flown out of Ruacana airport; So many things that he would rather forget. Hesitantly, he began to tell the story . . .
The small aeroplane struggled off the runway, desperately clawing its way into the air.
“We too bloody loaded,” Steffen shouted as he struggled with the controls.
“Well, it too fucking late to make that observation now, Ricky,” Reece replied with a laugh. “But I’m sure your half hour solo experience will get us there.”
“Fuck off, Sean,” Steffen muttered. “Five hours of solo.” He watched the altimeter as it gradually rose above the six thousand f
eet mark; five hundred above ground level. “I’ll be happy when I get this crate up another five thousand feet.”
“Why five thousand?”
“Because then at least I can jump out and use the only parachute.”
“Cheers, mate,” Reece grinned. Turning to the others crammed in the four seats at the back he told them, “Ricky says there is a small chance we may not die after all.”
Ironic cheers greeted his remark.
Cole ignored the nervous laughter around him and went over his plan again in his mind. There was so much that could go wrong that he was trying to plan an alternative to every action, and a plan B if that should also go tits-up. He took off the tie, opened a window and threw them out before undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. “I never could stand collar and tie,” he said.
Smit leaned across. “We’ve only just started and already you’ve been demoted to the working class, Charlie? That doesn’t bode well.” The cabin echoed with more laughter. They were just so relieved to be off and running. Whatever misgivings they had about the plan, it was too late to turn back now and that was a relief.
Steffen watched the needle pass eight thousand feet. He picked up the radio microphone and told any aircraft in the area that they were in the air and leaving the Grand Central airspace.
An hour and twenty minutes later Reece checked his wristwatch and tapped Steffen on the knee. “Time, Steff. We must be near the Botswana border by now,” he told the pilot, having to shout over the noise of the thundering engines. Steffen nodded and pushed the nose forward. The plane descended quickly and at one thousand feet above the flat sandy ground he set a new course, heading mainly north.
