This banker’s draft, for twenty-five thousand United States Dollars, I had later countersigned and handed straight over to Joshua – after all, he had more than earned it.
After handing over the banker’s drafts, in a crisp clear voice he had issued some advice: “Because of the adverse press that is likely to arise over the k…,“ he had been about to say killings, but had thought better of it. ”The deaths of the five ANC men,” he had corrected himself, “it would probably be most prudent if you were to leave South Africa. For a short while, anyway.”
“And Sergeant Joshua G…?” I had asked.
“Ah,” he had exclaimed, looking at and acknowledging Joshua, for the first time. “Ah, we may have to find other duties for him,” he had finally replied, talking about Joshua as if he hadn’t even been in the room.
“Good – so you have no objections if the Sergeant resigns from the South African National Intelligence Service, and comes to work for me,” I had said – more a statement of fact than a request for tacit approval.
“In the circumstances – that would be most ideal,” the man in the smart suit had replied. Standing up from behind the Captain’s desk, he had turned and left the room, without any further acknowledgement or common courtesy to either of us.
It had taken Joshua and me less than an hour to pack and get a cab to Johannesburg International Airport. While we had waited for our connecting flight to Heathrow, London, we had made the most of the superior ambiance and comfort offered by the International Bar, at the hotel. And, it had been while we were in the bar that I had been ‘propositioned’. I had been approached by two senior members of the South African Directorate of Military Intelligence, who had asked me straight out if I would carry out the assassination of a number of ANC targets; located in Brussels, London, Paris and Gothenburg. Paris I had to unfortunately decline. Although it had been some years since the Cannes affair, the French had never really forgiven me for it – and they can get quite bolshy about such things. Nevertheless, Joshua and I did manage to visit the other cities, on the behalf of the South African Directorate of Military Intelligence. But, it had been towards the beginning of February by the time that we had worked our way through the list, and had finally reached Gothenburg – Joshua had been fascinated by all the snow, and the vivid stark contrast that fresh blood had on it.
***
Amongst other things, Joshua is a farmer now; and he grows a variety of animal feed crops on Abbey Farm.
His most favourite crop of all are sunflowers – fields and fields of these big bright glowing flowers. Joshua’s wife had loved sunflowers and had grown them in their small back yard, at the police house, in Springbok. She had loved the way that the heads had turned to follow the sun, their warmth lighting up even the dullest of days in the cloudy rainy season. Joshua grows sunflowers in celebration of his wife’s life and his undying love for her. When not on the farm, Joshua will quite often be with Carlos, on work assignments in the Caribbean, and throughout Central and South America. In fact, Joshua will work most places – apart from South Africa, that is.
I think that you will all agree – he has his reasons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
John-Luke S – ‘Demolition Man’.
It had been the summer of ’85. Patrick had initially taken the phone call and, after exchanging a few pleasantries, had handed it over to me.
“It’s Bendy Wendy,” he had half whispered to me, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with the palm of his hand.
“Me?”
“Yes, she wants to speak to you.”
Bendy Wendy had been our New Zealand Security Intelligence Service contact – or more rightly, she had been Patrick’s contact. The NZSIS had been predominantly a civilian organisation, with no active part in the enforcement of national security or covert operations. And although the NZSIS had close links with the New Zealand Directorate of Defence Intelligence and Security, responsible for military intelligence – neither agency had their own active covert ‘agents’. And that is where we had come in – providing them with our own unique range of services.
“Hi, Wendy, what can we do for you?” I had greeted.
“Hi yer, Martin – how you doin, mate?” had come the thin screechy reply…nothing wrong with the line; Wendy’s voice had always sounded like that – thin and screechy. “It’s not what you can do for me – it’s what I can do for you, mate.”
“And what is it you can do for me, Wendy?” I had asked. “You have some work for us?”
“No, Mate – but after what I’m goin to do for you, you’ll definitely owe me a pretty big favour – possible even a freebie,” she had screeched.
“We don’t do freebies, Wendy,” I had replied.
“Reduced rates, then – buddies rates, on the next piece of work I put your way,”
“It depends on exactly what it is that you’re going to do for me,” I had stated, in return.
We were the ones who fixed contracts and prices…not the other way round – our fees had always been non negotiable.
“I’m keeping a mate of yours from being shafted – big time, Martin” Bendy Wendy had replied. “So, I’ll be expecting a big, big, favour in return.”
That had me intrigued: “What ‘mate’?” I had asked.
To my surprise, it had been a man’s voice that had spoken next, over the line – soft and flowing, its rhythm giving subtle emphasis between the syllables of each word.
“Bonjour Marteen, comment le diable vous est, Môn Ami? Le temps long – aucun voit,” – ‘Hello Martin, how the devil are you, My Friend? Long time – no see.’ John-Luke had either called me ‘Marteen’, or ‘Môn Ami’; both terms of endearment, all strangely in an Essex accent.
And he had been quite right – it had indeed been a long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The first time that I had met John-Luke had been in a seamy back street bar, in Bangkok. At the time, he had a large fat American sailor sitting on his chest; endeavouring to rearrange his facial features with massive ham like fists.
It had been early in ’74 – in the March, to be precise. I had been back in Vietnam for over a month, on my third outing there. And, after several intense missions ‘in-country’, I had been enjoying a bit of well earned R&R in Bangkok. Almost immediately after leaving Section 9, to go freelance, I had been approached directly by the CIA and recruited into their organisation. If you recall, I had worked for the CIA before, but those previous arrangements had been through La Légion. This new ‘informal’, formal arrangement, had me working for them as an independent operator, with full accreditation within the organisation and full integration within its hierarchical structure – an arrangement that has stood up very well to the test of time. The Americans had been in a hell of a state with regards to Vietnam. The US Military had been effectively disenfranchised and emasculated by their own politicians and Capitol Hill. And here’s the rub – they had been so very close to defeating the North Vietnamese before the rug had been pulled out from underneath them. Having signed up to the Peace Accord, negotiated at the Paris Peace talks, only a year before in 1973, the US military had been tied into a timetable of ‘Vietnamization’. They had been committed to handing over the continuing military conflict to the South Vietnamese Armed Forces – a bit like Iraq and Afghanistan – with all US combat operations ceasing and nearly all American troops being withdrawn…‘nearly’ all of them, that is. In return, Hanoi had undertaken the repatriation and safe return of all American POW’s. However, they could only return those prisoners that they had actually held themselves in captivity. To prevent the possibility of them being ‘liberated’ in Special Ops raids, by the Americans, the North Vietnamese had transferred their more important POW’s to small camps in Cambodia and Laos. As a direct result of this policy, the Hanoi government had been unable return those POWs, which it no longer held domain over. This, coupled with the ongoing deteriorating relationship with their once allies, had meant that Hanoi h
ad been incapable of applying sufficient pressure on Cambodia and Laos, to release the POW’s that they had been holding. Despite Nixon having paid a reputed 3.5 Billion US Dollars, in restitution, directly to Hanoi, such had been the worsening in relationships that the North Vietnamese had found that they couldn’t even purchase the liberty of those POWs, still being held by their former allies. Worst still – the Soviets had been on the scene, paying large cash bounties to the Cambodians and Laotians, to ‘repatriate’ specially selected US and Allied prisoners of war, themselves. Repatriating them to gulags and work camps in Siberia – where, if still alive, they most probably languish today! But there had still remained a number of United States and Allied POWs being held captive in Cambodia and Laos. And, that is where I had become involved. I had been recruited by the CIA to ‘extract’ American POW’s being held there – with deadly force, if need be.
Tired of pummelling him with his fists, the sailor had grabbed hold of John-Luke’s shoulder length blonde hair – and had proceeded to bang his head up and down on the bar floor.
Enough had been enough!
I had gone up to the bar and bought a large bottle of Jack Daniels and, grabbing the square bottle by the neck, I had approached the big fat sailor.
“Pardon me,” I had addressed him, causing him to stop in his assault and look up at me. “I’ll do you swap,” I had continued, offering the bottle of Tennessee whiskey to him, in my left hand.
“FUCK YOU!” Had been the fat sailor’s snarled response.
He had paused long enough to glare back up at me, a distinctive gold earring in the shape of a sea horse, with red ruby eyes, dangled down from his right ear. Then he had continued on with his relentless battery.
I had guessed that might have been his response – so I had hit him hard on the right hand side of his head, using the sharp edge of the rectangular bottle. The fat sailor had collapsed in a heap, alongside his intended victim. From my immediate right, some of the sailor’s friends had decided to get involved in the fracas. The nearest, a tall thin man, had come running straight up to me. A thrusting side kick, directly into his solar plexus, had sent him tumbling backwards over tables and chairs. The man’s involuntary acrobatics had the effect of stopping the rest of his friends, dead in their tracks. Opening the bottle of bourbon, I had poured the contents over the inert fat sailor, before smashing on to the bar.
“Next!” I had challenged; the broken bottle in hand, pointing directly at the fat sailor’s shipmates – but there had been no takers.
I have always found that, providing you have clearly demonstrated your capabilities and intentions, in a truly devastating unequivocal manner, it is generally quite easy to dissuade others from their own ill founded intent.
A few streets back from the bar, masquerading as a sauna and massage parlour, had been a brothel – and it was into this parlour that I had half carried John-Luke. The owner of the brothel, a middle aged woman; immaculately dressed, coiffured and turned out, had initially tried to stop us from entering. Obviously, the bloody, battered and bruised condition of my companion had not been to her taste – but the dollars that I had placed into her hand had made it more palatable for her. Like a mother hen, she had ushered us both into the boudoir ambiance of the waiting area, all bathed in the soft glow of low wattage bulbs covered with red silk scarves. Once inside, she had started to sing out the extensive menu of services that her establishment had to offer. I had interrupted her; pointing out that the services had been for my friend, not me, and what had been required was a bath and cleanse for him…nothing more – nothing less. By then, John-Luke had been coming round, and had been very much aware of his new surroundings.
“Thank you – Môn Ami,” he had said, in a subtle Essex accent, pausing to light up a Gauloises in between his swollen lips.
“You’re not French, then?” I had queried. During his battering, in between blows, he had frequently sworn at the fat sailor in perfect French.
“Well, sort of. My mother is French and my father is a stockbroker from Essex – a typical Essex lad, I suppose,” he had gone on to explain, blowing out a long cloud of smoke.
“May I have one?” I had asked, referring to the packet of Gauloises that he had held in his hand.
John-Luke had probably been in his early twenties, thick long dark blond hair flowing down either side of his face, a face that had been badly swollen and gorged by his beating. But he had still retained a smiling sparkle in his bright blue eyes.
“Certainly,” he had replied, offering me the blue carton of the strong unfiltered cigarettes. “You on vacation?” he had asked.
“Yes,” I had replied, lighting up the strong French cigarette. ”You?”
“Yes.”
But that had been as far as the conversation had gone. Almost tiptoeing into the waiting area, the Madam had lead in two of her girls – their scanty lingerie did little to cover their natural charms. From the growing bulge in his trouser, it had been clearly obvious that John-Luke had been very keen to go off with his new friends. He had quickly thanked me for my help and, even more hurriedly, had arranged for us to meet up the following day.
But I didn’t show up – I had other things to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
During the whole of my third tour in Vietnam, I had operated exclusively out of the South Vietnamese Air Force Base at Phu Bai, which had previously been a large US Military base, before being handed over to the South Vietnamese.
There had only been a handful of Americans still left on the military base, all of whom had been ex-members of Special Operation Group, SOG – all of whom had reported directly to me. I had been responsible for the planning and execution of ‘extractions’, and the repatriation of POWs.
As there was not supposed to have been any United States combat troops remaining in Vietnam – the last having left in the previous March – the CIA had even created a fictitious outfit for us. This had been the 13th Company of the 228th Combat Support Aviation Battalion, assigned to the 11th Aviation Group of the Republic of Vietnam Air Force, the VNAF. Operating out of Hue-Phu Bai – we had all been classed as ‘technical advisors’! We even had our own insignia – a white stork, on a blue background, carrying a pair of red Victorian lady’s booties. We even had our own motto ‘You drop it – and we’ll pick it up.’ This had been the brainchild of my CIA contact, Phil N…Jnr. Apparently, Phil’s father, with the same given name, had also been in the CIA – hence ‘Junior’ or ‘Jnr.’ Phil had been fresh faced, giving him the comparative look of a youngster, with an obscenely perfect set of brilliant white teeth, which he revealed every time that he had smiled – which he did, and still does, a lot.
Phil has been my CIA contact ever since 1974 and, despite his elevation through the CIA hierarchy; we have remained good close friends, as well as maintaining a sound professional relationship.
In the clandestine world of subterfuge and covert operations, it is truly refreshing to have someone who you can actually trust…which is just as well really, otherwise, I might have had to kill him – as I have done so with numerous others!
The team, which I had headed up, had been relatively small. There had been Phil, our CIA contact, who had been our ‘desk jockey’, supplying intelligence, procuring equipment and greasing palms. And we had been very fortunate to have not just one, but two combat experienced marine helicopter pilots to fly for us, Tom and Jerry – I kid you not; those were their actual names! The three man combat unit had comprised of two ex-SOG veterans – Burl and Merl. Burl had been an ex-army helicopter pilot, and Merl had been a co-pilot and flight engineer, on Hueys. They had both been recruited into the Special Operations Group of the Special Activities Division, of the Central Intelligence Agency, back in ’69, and had been operating with them, ever since.
Some twelve years later, I was to meet up with Burl and Merl again, in Las Vegas, when I had brought them into the American branch of the Family.
The third member of our combat unit ha
d been a South Vietnamese SOG interpreter nicknamed ‘Cookie’; due to his propensity for always combing the front of his jet black hair back in a large flowing wave, just like the character out of a popular American TV show, ’77 Sunset Strip’. Interpreter had been something of a misnomer, loosely applied to all South Vietnamese members of the SOG. Typically, out of a nine man combat team; you could have up to six South Vietnamese, all of whom would be designated as ‘interpreters’ – just exactly how many linguists does it need to carry out a combat mission? As well as being our interpreter, Cookie could also play a pretty mean tune on his CAR15, a cut down ArmaLite assault rifle. And, when it had come to the Huey’s two mounted M60 7.62mm machine guns, he had brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Rock and Roll’.
To give the appearance of being a normal operational supply unit, we would fly out every day, from Phu Bai, the Huey UH-1 loaded with empty packing cases and containers, which we would then drop off, literally, into the dense jungle area of the A Shau Valley, before returning back to base. Burl, Merl, Cookie and myself had acted as loaders, loading empty cases and containers on board, and then flying out on ‘delivery’ with them. This had been a fairly regimented routine; only changing when there had been a mission, or when we had taken days off for R&R – which had been more commonly known by the other members of the team as ‘I&I’…Intercourse and Intoxication’. Phil’s cover had been that of a civilian shipping clerk, preparing schedules and bills of lading, from a small office above the aircraft hanger that had purported to be the unit’s warehouse facility. Our ‘bunk’ house had also been attached to the hanger, at the rear of it, nothing more than a row of offices that had been converted to provide us with basic, but adequate, sleeping, washing and cooking facilities. Although theoretically being of officer rank, I had always bunked down with the rest of the team – if you can’t eat, sleep and fart together, then you are not a team! Getting back to my bunk, late one afternoon, I had found that Phil had left a note in his neat handwriting, attached to the pillow. Just three words on a tiny insignificant scrap of paper –‘Special Pickup Required!’
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 11
