Wilbur Smith - C08 Golden Fox

by C08 Golden Fox(Lit)

  "Red Rose,' she said and Isabella recognized her voice from their telephone conversation. 'Get in!" Quickly Isabella slipped into the van and sat on the bench opposite the woman. She slammed the door, and immediately the van pulled away.

  The body of the van was without windows or any ope i g except for the ventilator in the roof above Isabella's head. She could not see out and, though she tried to track their course by the turns and stops, she was soon totally confused and abandoned the attempt.

  "Where are you taking me?' she asked the woman opposite her.

  "Silence, please.' And Isabella resigned herself She pulled her collar up around her ears, and thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her anorak.

  They drove for twenty-three minutes by her wristwatch, and then the van stopped again and the rear door was opened from outside.

  They were in a parking garage. She judged from the unpainted concrete pillars that supported the low roof and from the steep access-ramp at the far end of the long narrow chamber that it was an underground parking facility.

  The woman in the grey overalls took her arm and helped her down from the van. The touch of her hand made Isabella aware of just how powerful she was. The hand felt like the paw of a gorilla, and she towered above Isabella with wide meaty shoulders under the grey cloth.

  "This way,' she ordered. Still holding her arm, she led Isabella to the lift doors opposite the van. Despite the painful grip, Isabella glanced around her quickly. There were a dozen or so other vehicles parked in the bays alongside the van; at least two of them had diplomatic number-plates.

  The doors of the lift opened, and the woman pushed Isabella into it. A glance at the control panel showed Isabella that her assumption had been correct. The lighted stage-indicator showed that they were at 'Basement Level W. The woman pushed the button for the third floor and they rode up in silence, until the lift stopped with the stage-indicator at 'Level III' and her escort urged her out into a bare corridor with cork flooring. They walked down it side by side, and still in silence. The corridor was empty and the doors on each side closed.

  As they approached the end of the corridor, the facing door slid open.

  Another large female with flat Slavic features, dressed also in grey overalls, ushered them into what appeared to be a small lecture-room or an intimate movie-theatre. A double row of easy chairs faced the raised dais and the screen that covered the far wall.

  Isabella's escort led her to the chair in the front row centre.

  "Sit down,' she said, and Isabella sank down on the smooth cold plastic padding. The two women moved around and took up their position, standing behind Isabella. For several minutes, there was silence. Then the small door to the right of the dais opened and a man came through' He moved slowly, stiffly, like a frail and sick old man. His hair was dead white, with a yellowish tinge, and hung over his forehead and ears. His features were very pale, lined and seamed with age and suffering, so that Isabella felt a twinge of sympathy for him, until the light caught his eyes.

  With a small jolt of intense distaste she recognized those eyes. Once she had been with her father on a chartered fishing-boat out of Black River.

  Shasa had been trolling a live bonito along the oceanic drop-off under the shadow of Le Morne Brabant on the island of Mauritius when he had hooked into a gigantic mako shark.

  After a battle which lasted two hours, he had dragged the creature alongside. As its pointed snout broke through the surface, Isabella had been leaning over the rail and she had looked into its eyes. They were black and pitiless, without definite iris or pupil, two holes that seemed to reach down into hell itself. Those were the same eyes that studied her now.

  She held her breath under their implacable scrutiny, until at last the man spoke. Then his voice came as a surprise. It was low and hoarse. She had to lean forward slightly to make sense of the words.

  "Isabella Courtney, from now on we will never use that name again in any communication. You will be referred to and you will refer to yourself only as Red Rose. Do you understandf She nodded, not trusting her voice to reply. He lifted the cigarette that smouldered between his fingers and drew deeply upon it. He spoke again through a cloud of exhaled smoke.

  "I have a message for you, in the form of a video-tape recording.' He stepped down from the dais and took the chair at the end of the row furthest from her.

  As he settled into it, the overhead lights dimmed. She heard the faint hum of electronic equipment, and then the screen lit up. The scene it displayed was a bare white-tiled room - a laboratory or an operating-theatre, she decided.

  There was a table in the centre of the room, and on it was a glass-sided tank much like one of the aquariums in which ornamental tropical fish were displayed in a pet shop. The tank was filled with water to within a few inches of the top. On the table-top beside the tank stood some sort of electronic cabinet and an array of instruments and medical paraphernalia.

  She recognized a portable oxygencylinder and an oxygen-mask. The mask was a din-dnutive model suitable for infants and very small children.

  A man was busy at the table. His back was towards the ieo camera and his features were hidden. He wore some type of white laboratory-coat. He turned to face the camera, and Isabella saw that he wore a cloth theatre-cap and surgical mask.

  His voice was dispassionate as he began to speak, and his accent was foreign, east European. He seemed to be addressing Isabella directly out of the screen.

  "Your orders were to speak to nobody, not in Malaga or elsewhere. You deliberately disobeyed those orders.' He was staring at her from the screen with disembodied eyes.

  "I'm sorry,' she replied, as though he could hear her. 'I was so worried.

  I couldn't-" 'Silence!' hissed one of the women behind her chair. A hand fell on her shoulder, fingers dug into her flesh with a strength that made her wince.

  On the screen, the man was still speaking. 'You were warned that your disobedience would have dire consequences for your son. You chose to ignore that warning. What you are about to witness is a first demonstration of the seriousness of those instructions." He made a gesture to somebody off-camera and a figure entered from the side. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, for it also wore a cloth cap and surgical mask that covered all the face and head except for the narrow strip across the eyes. A full-length surgical gown fell to below the knees and was tucked into the tops of white rubber boots.

  "This is a qualified doctor who will monitor all the proceedings,' he explained.

  The figure carried a bundle in its arms. Only when it deposited the bundle on the table beside the glass-sided tank and a tiny bare leg kicked free of the swaddling cloth, Isabella realized that it was a child. With quick trained hands, the doctor unwrapped the infant, and the videocamera zoomed in on Nicky as he lay naked on the table-top kicking his legs in the air, and his gurgles sounded in the quiet room.

  Isabella thrust the fingers of one hand into her mouth and bit down on them hard to prevent herself crying out again.

  The doctor placed two small black suction cups on Nicky's bare chest. Thin wires dangled from them, and the doctor connected them to the electronic cabinet and switched it on. The digital figures in the panel lit with a green glow, and the narrator explained in a neutral voice: "The child's breathing and heartbeat will be recorded." The doctor looked up from his equipment and nodded. The narrator moved around behind the table and faced the camera.

  "You are Red Rose,' he said with peculiar emphasis on the name. 'And in future you will obey all orders given to you by that name." He reached down and took both of Nicky's ankles in one hand and lifted him.

  Nicky let out a squawk of surprise as he hung head-down like a small pink wingless bat.

  "You are about to witness the consequences of disobedience." He swung the child and held him head-down over the glass-sided tank. Nicky arched his back and tried to lift his head, he waved his arms and clenched and unclenched his fists, making small noises of uncert
ainty and alarm.

  Slowly the narrator lowered the child head-first into the water, and the sounds of his little voice were cut off abruptly. The video-camera zoomed in through the glass side of the tank and focused on his face below the surface of the water. The colour resolution of the film was true to life.

  Isabella screamed wildly and tried to struggle out of her chair. The two women seized her from behind and forced her down again.

  On the screen Nicky struggled in the narrator's grip. Underwater his face was contorted and silver bubbles streamed from his nostrils. His face seemed to swell and darken.

  Isabella was still screaming and fighting when on the screen the masked doctor looked up quickly from the heart monitor and said sharply in Spanish: 'Stop! That is enough, comrade!" Immediately the man lifted the child clear of the tank. Water streamed from Nicky's nostrils and open mouth, and for long seconds he could not utter a sound, except for his tiny gasping breaths.

  The narrator laid him down on the table, and the doctor clapped the oxygen-mask over his swollen face and pressed down on his chest with the palm of his hand to induce regular breathing. Within a minute the digital readout on the cabinet had settled back to normal and Nicky's movements were stronger. He howled into his mask with shock and outrage, his voice becoming louder and stronger with each cry.

  The doctor removed the mask and stepped back from the table. He nodded at the narrator. Once again he seized Nicky's ankles and lifted him over the tank. Nicky seemed to realize what was con-dng. His cries of protest reached a higher terrified pitch, he kicked and writhed in the man's grip 'He's my sonv Isabella screamed. 'You can't - you mustn't do this to my baby!" The narrator lowered Nicky's head once again below the surface, and the child fought with all his strength. His frenzied exertions racked the tiny body, water splashed over the edge of the tank, and once again his face changed colour swiftly.

  Isabella screamed at him. 'Stop it! I'll do anything you say, just stop torturing my baby! Please! Please!" Once again the doctor intervened with a sharp warning, and this time when Nicky was lifted clear of the water his movements were weaker. He made little choking, cawing sounds, and a mixture of water and vomit erupted from his open inverted mouth and silver strings of mucus slid down from his flared nostrils.

  The doctor worked swiftly, his alarm apparent, and he said something to the other man. The narrator looked up at the camera, seeming to stare directly at Isabella.

  "We almost miscalculated that time. We exceeded the limit of safety.' He and the doctor put their heads closer together and spoke so softly that Isabella could not catch the words, and then the narrator addressed her again. 'That concludes our demonstration for the time being. I sincerely hope that it will not be necessary for you to witness another like it. It would be harrowing for you to have to watch the amputation of the child's limbs without anaesthetic, or eventually his strangulation in front of the camera. Of course, it will depend on you, and the degree of co-operation that you are prepared to afford us." The image faded, and the screen went blank. There was no sound in the darkened theatre except Isabella's sobs. These lasted for a long time. When they finally quietened the lights were raised slowly and Joseph Cicero came to stand over Isabella.

  "I assure you that none of us takes any particular pleasure in this sort of. thing. We will try -to avoid any repetition." 'How could he do itv Isabella whispered brokenly. She was huddled down in the large chair. "How could any human being do that to a child?" 'I repeat, we do not enjoy the necessity. You must blame yourself, Red Rose. It was your disobedience that caused your son's discomfort." 'Discomfort! Is that what you call the torture of an innocent... F 'Control yourself," Cicero warned her sharply. 'For your child's sake, control your insolence." 'I'm sorry.' Isabella dropped her voice. 'It won't happen again. Just don't hurt Nicky again, please." 'If you co-operate, your son will not have to suffer further. He is in the care of a highly trained - paediatric sister. He will receive the type of professional care that even you would not be able to give him. Later he will be given the best education that any boy or young man could hope for." Isabella stared up at him, her face twisted with misery.

  "You speak as though he has been taken away from me for ever, as though I will never see my baby again." Cicero coughed and shook his head, struggled to regain his breath and then whispered hoarsely: 'This is not the case, Red Rose. You will be allowed to earn the privilege of access to your son. To beg-in with you will receive regular reports of his progress. You will be shown video recordings of how he develops, when he first sits up unaided, when he begins to crawl, to walk." 'Oh nov she whispered. 'You can't keep him from me that long. It will be months." Cicero went on as though she had not spoken. 'Later you will be allowed to spend some time with him each year. It is possible that some time in the future, if your conduct is satisfactory, you will be allowed to spend holidays together - days, even weeks in your son's company." "No.' Her voice was a pitiful sob. 'You can't be so cruel as to keep us apart." 'Who knows, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that one day we may remove all restrictions and allow you free access. For that to happen you would have to earn our complete trust and gratitude." 'Who are you?' Isabella asked in a small subdued voice. 'Who is Ramsey Machado? I thought I knew him so well and yet I did not know him at all.

  Where is Ramsey? Is he part of all this monstrous. ?'Isabella's voice broke, and she could not continue.

  "You must put aside all thoughts of that nature. You must not seek to find the answer to the question of who we are,' Cicero warned her. "Ramsey Machado is under our control. Do not expect help from him. The child is his also. He is under the same constraint as you are." 'What must I do? What do you want of me?' Isabella asked. And Cicero nodded with satisfaction. There had been a remote chance that the woman might prove headstrong and uncontrollable. The psychiatrist's report on her had mentioned that possibility, but Cicero had never placed much credence in it. The hook on which they had hung her was sharp and fiercely barbed. Even if the child died, they would find a replacement to act in the video games and keep her dangling on the hook.

  No, he had expected her to be compliant, and those expectations had been vindicated.

  "First, I must congratulate you, Red Rose, on your doctorate. It will make your work for us easier." Isabella stared at him. It was difficult for her to make the mental leap from this terrifying world of torture and espionage back to the prosaic consideration of her studies and academic honours. She had to concentrate to keep up with what he was saying.

  "You will return as soon as possible to Cape Town and your family, after making arrangements at the University to receive your doctorate in absentia, do you understand?" Isabella nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak.

  "On your return home, you will begin to take more interest in all the family activities. You will work to make yourself indispensable to your father. You will make yourself his assistant and confidante in all things, but especially in his new position as head of the armaments corporation.

  What is more, you will begin to take an active interest in South African politics." 'My father is a self-contained man. He does not need me." "You are wrong, Red Rose. Your father is a very lonely and a basically unhappy man. He is incapable of a lasting relationship with any woman, except your grandmother, his mother, Centaine Courtney-Malcomess, and with you, his daughter. He needs that relationship very deeply - and you will give it to him.' I 'You want me to use my own father?' she whispered, horror blending with fresh horror in her eyes.

  "For the survival of your son,' Cicero agreed softly. 'No harm will come to your father, but your son stands full in harm's way unless you co-operate." Isabella took a handkerchief from her handbag and blew 1ee her nose. Her voice was soggy. 'You want me to inveigle myself into my father's confidence to gain information on the national armaments programme and pass it on to you?" 'You learn quickly, Red Rose. However, that is not all. You will use your father's political contact within the South African Nationalist regime to fo
ster your own political career within the party." She shook her head. 'I am not a political creature." "You are now,' Cicero contradicted her. 'You have a doctorate in political theory. Your father will introduce you to the corridors of power." Again she denied it. 'My father is in political eclipse. He backed the wrong horse when John Vorster came to power in South Africa. That was why he was shunted into the ambassadorial post here, into political oblivion." 'Your father has exonerated himself by the way he performed his duties here in London. His appointment to such a responsible position as head of Armscor is indication of that. We anticipate that soon he will be totally reinstated within the party. We deem it highly probable that within two years he will be once more a member of the Cabinet. You, Red Rose, will ride upon his back. In twenty years from now you yourself could be a minister of the Government." "Twenty years!' Isabella echoed in disbelief. 'Is that how long I must be your slave?" 'You still don't understand?' Cicero asked, shaking his head. 'Let me explain it to you. You belong to us, Red Rose, you, your lover Ramsey Machado, and your son, for ever." For many minutes Isabella stared sightlessly at the blank screen, contemplating the enormity of the vision that he had conjured up for her.