“So, you’re stealing them from Trichardt?”
“No, we’re not - from the terrorists, yes.”
“Fuck, he’s going to kill you.”
“Well, he’s not going to find out, is he?” I asked, giving him a hard stare.
“No, he’s not, not from me he’s not.”
“Good, now that we’ve settled that, you should know that I discussed this with the American woman, Maria Garcia. No doubt you’ve heard her name from Shirley.”
Gavin nodded.
“You being my equal partner and all, she’s agreed that we share this three-ways, provided we all put our bit in. How’s that?” I asked, staring at him smiling.
He didn’t say anything but just kept on chewing, looking down at his plate, and then chasing his food with a swallow of coffee. He wiped his lips with the napkin and looked up at me with this dead serious expression on his face.
There was a long pause.
“All right, partner.... I’m in!” He burst out laughing. “How much are we talking about?”
“A fuckin’ fortune,” I replied.
After hearing my detailed description of the series of events, we agreed that the briefcases should remain where they were until things had changed in Angola, even if this took a year or more. The cases weren’t going anywhere. Not another word was to be mentioned - we were to just get on with our business and our lives. Gavin also suggested that I communicate with Maria maybe only once every few months. I reluctantly agreed; it made sense. He said he would somehow get Trichardt to stop hounding him.
I made contact with Maria and told her that Gavin was in for a third. She sounded happy with the decision; at least this would no longer be a source of stress for me. We would wait to see what politically developed in Angola before thinking about retrieving the briefcases. She added that she would also, through her sources, endeavour to find out where best to dispose of the contents of the briefcases when that day arrived.
Neither of us mentioned the interrupted dinner in Durban but its implication still hung there. It would be a long while before we would see each other again - civil war still raged in south-eastern Angola.
Early Summer - 1991
Chapter Eight
For two days, a low-pressure system hovered over the Mozambique Channel socking in most of the country’s interior. Only the southern and western coastal regions were spared. Flying conditions were atrocious, if not downright dangerous with the country swathed in miles of low-lying cloud, mist, and continuous on-off rain the order of the day. Airline schedules were shot to hell. If you valued your company’s good name, you simply refused to undertake any flights in these conditions.
With the cash infusion the business had received a year or so ago, Gavin and I had been able to extract the business from its downward slide into a near bankrupt situation and turn it into a viable upmarket air charter company, with a modern fleet of five aircraft and two additional pilots. We spent more on advertising, and were now better equipped to approach blue-chip companies and offer competitive executive air travel packages to their corporate boards and senior management. We also canvassed large international corporations, both mining and industrial who had interests in South Africa.
To that end, we had purchased a Cessna Citation, a twinjet executive aircraft capable of accommodating 12 passengers as well as a Beechcraft King-Air twin turbo-prop executive airliner. Currently, we toyed with the idea of going into the helicopter business. We moved our offices and took over a complete hangar complex with its own office frontage, large enough to accommodate all our aircraft.
Our stalwart aircraft mechanic, Mike Holloway had not been overlooked. He now had a qualified aircraft mechanic, two apprentices, and three labourers to assist him. Even Shirley had eventually relented and let us hire additional female help for the office.
Gavin and I had almost identical adjoining offices with access to these controlled by Shirley. I wasn’t flying today, not that I flew as often as I used to. Gavin and I confined ourselves to flying the two new aircraft usually hired by the executives of our best clients. We ensured that they received the standard of service they paid for; Gavin and I personally saw to their needs.
Shirley had just dumped a thick file containing invoices and cheques needing to be counter-signed on my desk. Outside it still drizzled, the water outside my windows trickling from the roof to the ground as the building was not fitted with gutters. The windows were closed and to offset the sudden cold weather, the air conditioners were blowing warm air into the interior.
We had not discussed the briefcases in Angola for months, and nor had I heard from Maria. It had to be at least six months since I had last spoken to her. Trichardt had long since stopped enquiring about these, probably because Gavin eventually managed to convince him that what we had said was true - the cases had gone up in smoke.
Trichardt was still involved with Savimbi, and we were still occasionally approached by him, but refused to do additional flights to Jamba. It was just too dangerous.
Also, South West Africa had gained its independence from South Africa in early 1990 after a protracted civil war. It was now named Namibia, and the ruling SWAPO government’s relationship with the Angolan MPLA who had been their main supporters during the war was very good. They, with the MPLA, saw the UNITA movement as a common enemy.
Of course, this also stemmed from the fact that the South African apartheid government still covertly supported UNITA, although after the Tripartite Accord of 1989, which led to Namibia’s independence, her support should have been withdrawn.
There was a knock on the door, and Shirley stuck her head into the room.
“I’ve a call on the line for you from a woman, she sounds American. She says she’s Mary Donkin.”
“Put it through. I’ll take it,” I said absent-mindedly.
“Hello, Peter van Onselen speaking.”
“Peter, is that you?”
I instantly recognized the voice; it was Maria.
“Hi Mary, this is a surprise. Where are you phoning from?” I asked. Christ! I thought could my phones be tapped? I didn’t believe that. What was her problem? There had to be a reason for the subterfuge, I thought. After her return to the States, this was the first time she had phoned me at the office.
“I’m in town and I’m looking to hire an aircraft. There are just two of us, so something small will do. Of course, this will only be after the weather clears,” she said.
“Certainly. When do you require it?”
She certainly was playing the hush-hush bit to the full.
“Here, let me give you a number, just ask for me. Phone me when you are not busy - will you do that?”
I said I would. I jotted down the number she gave me, and then slowly replaced the receiver, not yet having overcome my surprise. Whenever I thought of Maria, I invariably saw her in the red cocktail dress she had worn when I last saw her, bending down so I could see the flash of her breasts.
I opened the adjoining door to Gavin’s office. He looked up as I walked in.
“What’s up?” he enquired, his pen hovering over the documents he was working on.
“She was just on the phone.”
“Who the hell is ‘she’?” he asked, not entirely pleased.
“Maria.”
He dropped the pen and jerked upright in his chair, his mood immediately different.
“For Chrissake!” he blurted his surprise evident on his face. “Well, why did she call? Stupid question! You’ve got to know why she’s called.”
I just nodded my head. “She’s in the country. She said I should phone, obviously from somewhere secure. I just wanted to let you know.”
Thanks.”
This rather ruined the rest of my day. I just couldn’t concentrate anymore. I quickly finished signing
the cheques Shirley wanted, grabbed my coat, and told her I was going out for a while.
I drove down the feeder road from the airport to the main highway. At the intersection, there was a petrol station where we maintained an account, all the company vehicles refuelling there. I parked the car and walked into the owner’s office. I said I’d forgotten something important at the office and asked whether I could use his phone.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m going out but feel free.”
I took the piece paper from my pocket and dialled the number. Maria answered immediately.
“Hi, what’s with this bloody cloak and dagger stuff?” I asked.
“Listen carefully, he hasn’t forgotten. I met him in the States a few months ago; it was a government get-together do. He made some sick joke about how that I was now living in the lap of luxury. Well, it was damn obvious what he was getting at. Be sure, I got the meaning - be careful, the man’s still suspicious.”
For a moment, I didn’t realize whom she was talking about; then it dawned on me - it was Trichardt! God yes, she was right to be careful.
“That’s why I’ve snuck into the country - under an assumed name. I’ve taken a five-week furlough - anyway, I had backlog of leave due. But that’s not why I phoned. Let’s get together.”
I agreed. She gave me the name of some nondescript but good hotel in Sandton. We arranged for eight-thirty that evening. She said I was to come up to her suite.
When I put the phone down, I suddenly remembered that I had a dinner date with Francine. I phoned her from the same phone, telling her that something had come up and that I needed to take a rain check. She was disappointed but I promised to phone the next day.
Initially, I had resisted any involvement with Francine, but it was not something from which I could just walk away. I mean, she worked a stone’s throw away from our offices! Invariably, we would see each other at the airport bar. Certainly, I could’ve stayed away but then people would have thought I was being unsociable. Besides, living alone is no fun and Francine is an exceptionally beautiful woman.
Eventually, she and I did go out on a dinner date and after a couple of bottles of wine, we again landed up at my place. It happened again and again, and now we were thought to be a couple. Men envied me - as I said, she truly was a beautiful woman, tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, an hourglass figure, and great legs. She was intelligent and fun to be with, and best of all; she had a healthy sexual appetite.
We still both kept our own places of abode, but would alternate between each other’s homes; sometimes not even getting together for a few days. This had been going on for about a year. Yes, occasionally she had made me aware of the tick of her biological clock, but she was only twenty-five and really did not seem to have marriage foremost in mind. She had a good job with the airline and her employer paid her well. She just wanted to let me know the thought was there.
I was comfortable in the relationship.
But now that Maria had phoned, somehow things were different again; my mind dwelt on Maria, and not only because of our involvement in the briefcases!
Maria had booked a suite in the Madison Hotel, a large complex that relied for its revenue on the stopover of airline crews from the larger international airlines who rotated their crews in South Africa. Invariably more than half of the guests were airline crews. I left my SUV parked in an unobtrusive corner of the hotel parking lot and made a dash for the entrance. It was still drizzling. I took the first available lift to the fourteenth floor, and knocked on number 1414.
A few moments later, it swung open.
Maria stood there, holding the door. Her dark eyes flashed and her mouth broke into a wide grin on seeing me. She stepped forward and we hugged - not a lover’s hug, but rather a warm welcoming hug. We held each other for a few seconds.
She was dressed in a business suit with a white silk blouse, the collar tied with a bow of similar material, she looking the executive type, a far cry from the woman I had known before. She was slimmer, not as voluptuous as before - I immediately though she had to be visiting a gym regularly, she looked so damn firm and fit. Her dark hair was radiant, parted on one side, it cascading down the side of her face.
She took my hand and drew me into the room, turning to face me once she had closed the door.
“Let me look at you.” She gave me an up and down appraisal, “Well, you certainly have improved - it must be the good life. When I last saw you, you were looking a little haggard. I can remember thinking that you looked like a man who needed a holiday.” She squeezed my hand, which she was still holding. “Come; let me get you a drink.”
From the small bar in the room, she brought two whiskeys with ice and a can of soda water to share.
“Well, tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. We haven’t spoken for so long,” I said.
“Not much really. You know I‘ve got that place in Virginia. Well, I’ve been there most of the time, near my work. I’m still attached to the southern Africa section - I shouldn’t really tell you that but what I’ve got to say will make better sense if you know what I’ve been doing.” Her demeanour took on a more serious note, “Things have changed. At the moment, a cease-fire is in force, which is working to a degree. I mean, everything still balances on a knife-edge - war could break out tomorrow again. They’ve signed something called the Bicesse Accord, which will get the UNITA forces integrated into the MPLA government forces. I think that’s rather wishful; they hate each other. The population is then supposed to go to the polls.”
“I’ve been hearing about peace noises up there but didn’t know quite how serious it was. Christ! I know these guys, they don’t like each other, they’ll be fighting again soon,” I said.
She took a sip from her glass and came to sit beside me on the couch.
“You’re probably right,” she said, “but now we’ve got a window of opportunity. Most patrols have been withdrawn; the rebel forces are all congregated in camps. If there are any patrols out there, they must be merely a token force and few and far apart. Certainly, there still are troops in Jamba but that is miles from Luiana. Oh, incidentally that’s the name of the disused field where we buried the cases. I got hold of a detailed CIA map of the area - there can’t be anything better. We need to get the cases out of there within the next few weeks, before Trichardt finds out I’m in the country.”
She glanced anxiously at him over the rim of her glass.
“Trichardt’s never going to know you’re here.”
“Don’t you believe it, he’s watching. And I don’t know if anybody has been keeping an eye on me in the States.”
“All right - we’ll be careful. I’ve told Gavin you’re here but we’ll have to rope him in if we are planning something,” I said.
“Of course, but I’ll leave that to you. Have you thought about it? I mean... any plans?”
“Mmm, I’ve got one or two ideas, but it is definitely a fly-in and fly-out situation, covertly that is, if that is at all possible.”
“Sounds interesting, but enough. You can take me to dinner now,” She smiled, rising from the settee.
We eventually chose one of those homely Portuguese restaurants where invariably half the clientele were friends of the owner and everyone seemed to bring their families to dinner. It was tucked away in the southern suburbs in a small shopping centre. We were shown to a small corner table not too far from a roaring hearth fire, the atmosphere warm and cosy, this a welcome change after the sudden cold spell the country was experiencing.
From the wine list, I chose a Backsberg Cabernet Sauvignon, just the right wine for this weather, warm and smooth. We emptied the bottle before the main course was arrived. As a starter, we ate grilled calamari - sliced squid rings, which had been prepared to perfection. For the entrée we agreed to share a seafood platter, this the speciality of the house, an e
normous oval plate covered in an assortment of local crustaceans, squid, mussels and fish to which was added a copious amount of a white Portuguese fish sauce and small boiled potatoes.
By now, we had consumed the second bottle and if we previously had displayed any inhibitions these had long disappeared; our conversation was unreserved and intimate. We made no effort to disguise our feelings for one another.
She placed her hand on mind. “Well, we seem to be back to where we left off when I ran away from you after that dinner in the Maharani Hotel in Durban. I often feel a pang of regret about that.”
I stared at her, the light from the lone candle on the table reflected in her eyes. She was waiting to see how I would respond to her remark, obviously expecting a reaction to the innuendo it contained.
“I’ve often dwell on that moment, wondering what would have happened had you not left.” I took her hand and enclosed it in mine.
She smiled. “So do I,” she whispered.
Maria insisted that we have liqueurs with our coffee, something I don’t normally do, but I relented. She ordered something the name of which I can’t recall. With much bravado, I didn’t sip it, but threw it back in my throat. It had to be at least fifty per cent proof: it literally took my breath away. Maria thought my reactions hilarious.
We left the restaurant just before eleven and drove slowly back to her hotel, I having had a lot more to drink than I should have. It was still raining, a faint drizzle coming down. The tyres swished on the wet road, the streetlights, neon signs, and car lights a kaleidoscope of colour as these were reflected from the wet surface. She shifted in the seat and then leaned against me, her hand in my lap, and her fingers an inch from my groin resting against my inner thigh.
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