Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  What was the point?

  Like beaters on a safari drive, herding the prey on before them, the police had been driving the mob into a trap; a cordon made up of several police detachments – and where a considerable number of arrests would subsequently be made.

  Getting out from the leading Casspir, a Police Sergeant had walked directly over to us, a large bull of a man. “I’ve got orders from Captain van Rensburg to take you straight back to Pretoria Central – for de-briefing,” he had shouted out, his large face reddening as he had done so.

  “Thank you, Sergeant – but we already have a cab waiting for us,” I had replied politely, nodding over to where Gabriel had parked up the white Mercedes, its engine running.

  “I’ve got orders to…,” the Police Sergeant’s voice had abruptly tailed off; the muzzle of my Uzi had been unintentionally prodding his fat gut.

  It had the desired effect, though – and Joshua and I had walked past him and got straight into the waiting Mercedes. It had only been when we were on our way back to Pretoria that I had discovered that it had not been Gabriel who had called the police.

  They had already been on their way to Duduza!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I had instructed Gabriel to drop us both off at my hotel.

  Joshua and I had been greeted by a hushed, stifled silence as we had entered the foyer together – my hotel had been for whites, only! The male receptionist had gawped at us, his mouth gaping wide open…but not a sound of protest had come from him – or from anyone else in the foyer of the hotel. Not surprising really. Joshua and I had been arm in arm, he blooded and battered – me with a Uzi sub-machine gun slung over my shoulder, and a pair of automatic pistols holstered under each armpit.

  Under the circumstances, what could they have possibly said?

  I daresay that as soon as we had gone up the stairs, the hotel receptionist would have made a frantic call to the police. But, if he had of done, they could not, or would not respond. I had let Joshua shower first, allowing him sufficient time to wallow in the hot steaming shower before I had taken mine. My clothes had not fitted Joshua too well. The best thing that had fitted him had been my field combats, but they had been very short in the leg. And even the largest of my shirts had refused to button up for him. However, my flip-flops had fitted him – after a fashion, that is. After sharing a few stiff shots of Vodka, straight out of the bottle, we had made our way past a very much relieved receptionist and out of the hotel, to where Gabriel had been patiently waiting for us in his cab. However, instead of taking the cab to Abby’s Bar, as usual, we had gone to the NIS offices at Pretoria Central, for a de-brief.

  Captain Frederik van Rensburg had been very full of himself. He had been very ‘cock-a hoop’. The Duduza operation had gone like clockwork and had netted some very ‘big fish’, indeed – some very high ranking ANC MK Committee members, no less. According to him, with his cunning plan and clever subterfuge, he had been able to entice them out into the open, to address a rally being held at Duduza, before overseeing the execution of a collaborator, by necklacing.

  The penny had suddenly dropped – Duduza had been a NIS ‘sting’, all along!

  Van Rensburg had used Joshua as bait to lure the five ANC MK members out of hiding. At the briefing session, the previous day, he had intentionally leaked it to Joshua that the ANC MK men, responsible for his wife’s brutal death, would be attending the rally at Duduza. And, visa-versa, he’d had it leaked to the ANC that Joshua, the policeman that they had wanted to kill in Springbok, would be there. With scant regard for Joshua’s safety, he had deliberately set him up – the late arrival of the riot police had been testament to that. It might have even suited van Rensburg’s purpose better if Joshua had indeed been killed; then the NIS Captain could have arrested the five ANC members on the capital charge of killing a policeman, making the death penalty a foregone conclusion. Van Rensburg had wrapped up the short briefing very quickly, summarily thanking all those who had been involved with the operation.

  Joshua had risen to his feet first – his voice loud and clear: “Excuse me, Sir – can I ask where the five ANC members are being held?”

  I had been quite impressed by Joshua’s calm composure; I don’t think that I would have been so composed, under the circumstances.

  “Not here,” had come the abrupt reply. “We didn’t want to run the risk of any protest meetings taking place outside here, in Central. So, we’ve moved them to a secure location on the outskirts.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Joshua had replied, seemingly content with Van Rensburg’s vague reply.

  Due to the very real threat of bomb attacks, vehicles had not been allowed to park directly in front of government buildings, so Gabriel had been waiting for us up at a road junction, just south of the NIC Pretoria Central offices. Needless to say, we had gone straight to Abby’s Bar. Busy as it had been, Abby could always find a table for us – even if she had to unceremoniously ‘clear away’ those who had been sitting at it. To celebrate the day, we had ordered two of ‘Abby’s Specials’…not that it was so much of a special, in the sense of being special – but more likely the only thing that she could cook! After a few bottles of warm ‘Castle’ lager, Abby had served up a pan of her famous Frikkadel: deep-fried savoury meat balls, on a bed of rice, cooked with onion, eggs, vinegar and spices, served with thick chunks of rough coarse bread – delicious. Just before midnight, we had finished the last of many bottles of ‘Castle’, its heavy warm flavours sufficient to mellow our moods. As ever, Gabriel had been patiently waiting outside the bar. He had become more like a personal chauffeur to us – than a mere cab driver. He had dropped me off first at my hotel on Pretorius Street, before taking Joshua the few blocks to his dormitory at Central. I had crashed out the very moment that my head had hit the pillow, not even bothering to undress. The day…the meal – the beer, they had all served to bring sleep to me instantaneously. But, as now, I have never been a heavy sleeper – needing generally no more than four or five hours sleep a day, sometimes even less. And that night had been no exception. Shortly after 2:00 A.M., I had been woken by the sound of car doors being slammed outside the hotel in the street below. Even before I had heard the sound of footsteps resonating up the stone staircase, I was out bed…my Browning Hi-Power, which had been under my pillow, now in my right hand pointing directly at the door of my room – the safety off. The footsteps had stopped immediately outside my door – two people, I had judged. With several reverberating thuds, the door had been knocked by someone’s hand…at least it had not been with the butt of a gun – even so, I had doubted that it had been room service, though.

  “Yes,” I had shouted out, my finger resting on the trigger of the Browning – aimed directly at the centre off the door.

  “It’s me – van Rensburg,” the voice behind the door had shouted, high pitched and shrill. “Just get this fokken door open.”

  “Certainly, Captain – just give me a moment and I’ll be straight with you,” I had replied, putting the safety back on the Hi-Power, before placing into the rear waist band of my military combats, nestling it into the small of my back.

  “What took you so fokken long?” Captain Frederik van Rensburg had greeted me as I had opened the door – his face had looked very flushed and flustered. Behind him had stood a uniformed police officer, his face expressionless, his hands behind his back.

  “Oh dear, Captain, whatever is the matter…you seem to be a bit out of sorts – is something wrong?”

  Captain Frederik van Rensburg had flown into a complete rage, a tirade of pure Afrikaans spurting out with the sprays of spittle from his lips – he had not been a happy bunny.

  He had mentioned Joshua’s name frequently in the context of some Afrikaans that I had vaguely understood: “Fokken bliksem – bosbefok fokken bliksem – fokken bosbefok draadtrekker – fokken kak,” which, loosely translates into: ‘Fucking bastard – crazy fucking bastard – fucking crazy wanker – fucking shit,’ but most of h
is diatribe had been totally beyond my comprehension.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I had asked, endeavouring to impart at least some tone of sincerity into my voice.

  “You can come with me,” he had shouted back.

  “May I ask where we are going?”

  “The Airport Barracks at Johannesburg International,” van Rensburg had spat back. He had then turned on his heel and had stormed off back down the corridor, in the direction of the staircase.

  I had sat in the rear of the police car with the Captain. In complete silence, we had sped south through the streets of Pretoria, in the direction of Johannesburg International Airport and the police barracks that had been located there. I had my window down, it had been a hot sultry night and, as we had gotten within a block of the police barracks, I had caught the first trace of a clinging smell in the air. Pungent and acrid – it had been the stench of burnt flesh. There had been police cars, vans and Casspirs all lined up outside the Airport Barracks – armed uniformed police milling everywhere. Although Captain Frederik van Rensburg had not been in uniform, he had been instantly recognised by the assembled police, especially the forlorn figure of one officer – police Sergeant Willem Botha, officer in charge, at nights.

  In his mid-fifties, Sergeant Willem Botha had been a corpulent figure of a man, his girth widened considerably through his passion for lager and good food, of which he frequently indulged in copious amounts of both. With retirement in mind, being the nightshift officer in charge, at the relatively quiet Airport Barracks, had suited him down to the ground. The ‘grave yard’ shift had been a cushy rota for him. Other than making the occasional arrest, at the nearby terminal of the airport, hardly anything ever happened on the nightshift. True, his counterpart, on days, had accepted the custody of five prisoners, but this had not detracted from his usual routine. With a night shift of 10:00 P.M. to 6:00 A.M., in the morning, it had afforded him the lifestyle he had craved. Home for breakfast, with the missus; followed by eighteen rounds at his golf course, during the cool of the morning; sleep in the afternoon; then dinner with his misses before checking in at the Airport Barracks, punctually at 10:00 P.M.. He would set out the shift duties of his two black officers, before going out on regular patrol, at 11:00 P.M., every night. His patrol, in reality, had never covered much ground; stopping at the home of his coloured mistress, just a few blocks from the Barracks. There he would indulge in more food and lager before experiencing the delights of being given oral sex, while having his prostate gland anally massaged. His custom had been to return back to the Airport Barracks, promptly at 2:00 A.M. – but this custom of his had been noted. That morning, after returning to his Barracks, Sergeant Willem Botha – who had frequently boasted that he had been related to someone high up in government – much to his horror, had found that his two black officers had not been on duty – instead, someone else had been there.

  When we had arrived, Joshua had been sitting, unaccompanied and unrestrained, on a solitary bench in the Airport Barrack’s reception area…a satisfied smile on his face – his body relaxed in an apparent state of contentment. Totally ignoring him, Captain Frederik van Rensburg had ushered me past Joshua, along a narrow corridor, and out through a set of double doors that had led directly into a large courtyard. Here the stench had been pretty bad. The courtyard, or quadrangle, had been some twenty-five yards square, with small steel pillars for floodlights set into each corner. In the centre of courtyard had been a slightly taller stanchion, with yet more floodlights fitted. Tied to each of the five metal pillars, had been a crouched smouldering figure, wisps of fine smoke still rising from their charred torsos and heads. The blackened burnt remains of tyres, thrust down firmly over the shoulders of each corpse, had given a clear indication as to the fate of the five men. They had all been ‘necklaced’. With stark, maniacal fixed grins – lips and noses melted clean away – and their eye sockets boiled empty, their blistered faces had been testament to the fact that they had been a long time in dying.

  It had been simple police work for Joshua to find out where they had been holding the five ANC MK men – just a process of elimination. And, even easier for him to have taken control of the Airport Barracks. He had been fully aware of Sergeant Willem Botha’s nocturnal habits; they had been common knowledge amongst the ranks. Taking a police van, from Pretoria Central, he had loaded up the vehicle with what he had required from the adjoining garages and workshops, before travelling to the Airport Barracks. Arriving there at 12:30 A.M., that morning, he had caught both black police officers asleep, on duty, behind the glass fronted partition of the duty desk. Joshua, having cut off his braids and having shaved his head, had been in full Sergeants uniform. He had exploited his uniform and rank, severely reprimanding the two startled men, before dismissing them both, sending them home pending a supposed disciplinary hearing. This had left Joshua all the time in the world to exact his revenge. Some say that revenge is a dish best served cold – but Joshua had decided that he wanted to serve his dish suitably flambéed. Taking the tyres and petrol out of the van, Joshua had prepared the small quadrangle, before leading each of the ANC MK men, individually, in turn, out into the square, securing each one firmly to one of the floodlight stanchions. Starting with the lesser ranking of the ANC MK men, Joshua had pushed the tyre firmly over the man’s head and shoulders. From a five gallon Gerry can, Joshua had then carefully soaked the tyre in a measured amount of petrol, endeavouring not to let any of the fluid get on to the clothes or body of the man…it was important that this should be done properly – it was not meant to be a quick death. Having satisfied himself that everything had been in order, Joshua had then set alight the tyre and, while the ANC MK man had screamed his life away, Joshua had then moved on to the next man, diligently duplicating the process. Methodically, and coldly, Joshua had repeated the process with each of the remaining ANC MK men, leaving the most senior of them to last. Then Joshua had sat back, on a small bench in the courtyard – and enjoyed the spectacle.

  I had to smile – this had been poetic justice on a grand scale.

  “You think that this is fokken funny!” Captain Frederik van Rensburg had snapped.

  “Under the circumstances, I think it is quite amusing, actually, Captain,” I had replied, and had then asked as a concerned afterthought. “What is going to happen to Joshua?”

  “Those fokken idiots, back at headquarters, think that the crazy black bastard should be given a fokken medal!” he had exclaimed – the Captain had been clearly annoyed at losing his five prize prisoners. He had been denied their trial and, being the officer in charge of their arrest, the kudos it would have brought with it. Now it had all been an acute embarrassment to him. “They want to see you both at Central, nine sharp,” he had shouted, before turning on his heel and storming off.

  I had returned back into the small reception area of the barracks, sitting down next to Joshua, on the bench. “Are you okay?” I had asked him.

  “Oh, I am far more than just okay,” he had softly replied. “I feel so good you would not believe it.”

  As it so happens – I did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It had been a busy day, or rather night, for us both – time to chill out and get a drink.

  The International Hotel, situated within the perimeter of the Johannesburg International Airport, had not actively operated a campaign of discrimination along strict apartheid lines, as it had been intended primarily for international travellers. Nevertheless, there had still been a form of subtle discrimination, with a few discrete, ‘by invitation only’, white bars and restaurants. Non-whites had also been restricted to certain floors, of the hotel, with separate lifts and stairs. But the ‘International Bar’, at the hotel, had more than opulently catered for the traveller – including non-whites. However, the presumptuous black concierge had insisted on seeing some form of identification, even though Joshua had still been in police uniform. We had both flashed him our National Intelligence Service ID’s
, and he had instantly switched to the ‘ever so humble’ mode, respectfully ushering us through the foyer of the hotel to the adjoining bar. It had turned 3:00 A.M., in the morning, and there had been but a handful of others in the bar – most probably international travellers, waiting for their flights or onward internal connections. It’s quite surprising how intense events can give you such a ravenous hunger – we had both been famished and, during the course of the next few hours, we had eaten our way through several plates of ‘toasties’. We also had drunk our way through several bottles of imported Budweiser and Millers Genuine Draft, chasing them with Russian vodka served straight from the bar’s freezer, poured like thick syrup over the large solid ice cubes that had filled the cut glass tumblers.

  We had hired a regular cab to take us the forty odd kilometres, from the airport to NIS Head Quarters, at Pretoria Central – arriving a little before 9:00 A.M. But it had not been Captain Frederik van Rensburg, who had been sitting behind the desk in the Captain’s office, that morning – the excitable van Rensburg was nowhere to be seen. The stranger behind the Captain’s desk had remained seated, beckoning for both of us to enter the room and to take a seat. In his mid to late fifties, judging by the cut and sheen of his fitted tailored suit, he was of superior rank to Captain van Rensburg. Without any formal introduction – practically ignoring Joshua – he had addressed me directly, in a surprisingly ‘home counties’ English accent, just the pronunciation of his A’s and his R’s had hinted at his South African heritage. He had thanked me for my valuable assistance at Duduza: ‘Which may have contributed, directly, or indirectly, to the apprehension of the five, ANC MK committee men.’ From the inside pocket, of his plush suit jacket, he had taken out two unfolded banker’s drafts. One was for five thousand United States Dollars: ‘For out of pockets expenses.’ The other draft had been for twenty-five thousand United States Dollars: ‘The bounty on the heads of the five, ANC MK committee men.’