Hyena Dawn (29 page)

‘
Good afternoon, can I help you?’

‘
Er, Miss Seyton-Waugh? Could I please have a few moments of your time? I am General Muller of the South African Police.’

Sonja felt the hair at the back of her head rising. It took a considerable effort for her to utter the next sentence. She hoped like hell that Deon would not come back now, she knew he would not react with such self-control.

‘
General Muller, please come in.’

He sat down in the lounge opposite her on one of the big leather couches. She could see that the attractiveness of the interior design was lost on him, though no doubt the cost of it was not.

‘
This is, er, a personal matter, Miss Seyton-Waugh. It concerns Major-General de Wet. You know him?’

‘
You must know I do, or you would not be here.’ She was trying her best, and not doing very well. This man must not see how much she hated him.

‘
Well, Major-General de Wet is in very serious trouble. I don’t think he’ll be with the force for much longer. He’s accused of manipulating evidence and of disobeying orders. Also, his wife is about to divorce him. We have recommended psychiatric treatment, though he has refused it. It is hard for me to tell you all this because Major-General de Wet is a close associate of mine, but my visit is prompted by concern for your personal security, and also your reputation.’

‘
Thank you, General Muller, that is most interesting. I had no idea of any of this, and of course I can understand that it must be deeply disturbing to you - as it certainly is to me.’ Sonja put a concerned expression on her face and resisted the temptation to order this odious man out of her house immediately. He leant slightly closer.

‘
Take my advice. Lay off Mr Aschaar.’

Sonja went cold. She tried to look as if she didn’t understand what he was talking about. Muller slipped his hand inside his uniform and pulled out a photograph. It was one of the photographs that Bernard had taken of her that evening. Sonja felt the blood surge up into her face. She tried to grab the photo from Muller’s hand but he pulled it away.

‘
You wouldn’t want this coming to light, would you, Miss Seyton-Waugh? So just follow my advice and stay away from Major-General de Wet.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘If you need any help, here’s my personal number; if you should have any trouble, or any information for me, you can reach me here, day or night. And I must ask you to try and act normally if you do see Major-General de Wet. He has a violent temper and I don’t think he would react well if he knew that I had been here.’

If Sonja had had a gun in her hand at that moment, she would have killed him. Instead she remained icy calm. ‘Don’t worry, General Muller, he won’t know about our meeting. But I think you should leave immediately; I received a phone call some minutes ago from Major-General de Wet, telling me he would be here shortly.’

At the door, General Muller made one last comment. ‘Please remember, Miss Seyton-Waugh, that this is a serious matter. No one else must know of our conversation.’

‘
No one else will, General.’

It was only when she had closed the door behind her that she started shaking. The meeting with Muller confirmed everything Deon had told her about the man - except that he was even worse than Deon had described. But as she looked at the piece of paper in her hand with the General’s number on it, she realised she had been given a powerful weapon which could be used to help Deon out . . .

General Muller felt very pleased with his visit. Miss Seyton-Waugh’s reaction had been just what he had expected - he could tell he’d struck home. After all, what woman of standing would want a photograph of herself like that in the popular press? He was quite sure she wouldn’t be seeing de Wet again.

As for himself, he would much rather have Miss Seyton- Waugh as a friend than an enemy. After all, she might be a useful source of revenue in the future. Perhaps a nice little profit could be arranged through third parties who would agree to return the photographs of her for a substantial sum? It would be a pity not to get the maximum yield out of all his hard work.

Pieter de Wet stepped out of his sports car and into the pouring rain. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was after four in the morning. He smiled to himself. He’d won a small fortune at poker that evening and was feeling very good.

He was glad he’d been able to do something for Deon. It had been a small thing to fly that Helen woman over to England and make sure that she was booked into the nursing home, but he could tell it had meant a lot to his brother.

Pieter felt that Deon had never really understood him - Deon, who was always so concerned with doing what was right. Unlike Deon, Pieter saw nothing unethical about the way he made his living. So he bought things that a lot of people wouldn’t touch . . . Sometimes they were stolen, sometimes they
weren’t...
So what. He had an enormous flat in the exclusive suburb of Killarney, he had a seaside cottage, and he enjoyed life. Except that Deon sometimes made him feel slightly guilty about it, because Deon worked like a galley-slave in the police force and earned only a pittance.

As Pieter walked towards the front entrance of his flat, he saw that a large man was obstructing his path. Immediately Pieter was on his guard. He ducked to the side - and received a punch in the head from a man he had not seen in the shadows. Then the big man was on him before he had a chance. Another blow across the head laid him out flat.

Pieter came round twenty minutes later. He was lying in sand, in front of the headlights of a car. He staggered to his feet, unable to see where he was because of the blinding light, but something told him to get away into the darkness as fast as he could. He started to run when he heard the cold metallic click that spelt death.

The noise of the shot resonated through his skull as the bullet struck him in the small of the back. He grabbed a handful of sand and squeezed it desperately, then rolled over and drew one last, painful breath.

The rain was coming down in sheets. Deon’s best pair of shoes was full of water, and the rest of his clothes were soaked through. Close by, another man was holding an umbrella, not for his own protection, but for the man in the black cassock who was reading aloud from the Bible. The minister had asked Deon if he would like any special passage to be read out when Pieter was buried, and Deon had chosen the thirteenth chapter of the First Epistle to the Corinthians.

The Dutch Reformed minister read out the scripture in monosyllabic tones that would have killed most of the beautiful passages of the Bible, but even his deadpan delivery could not dampen the intensity of this sublime piece of poetry.

‘
. . When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child. When I became a man, I put my childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’

The minister finished and was silent. The solemnity of the occasion was broken only by the sound of raindrops beating against the black surface of the coffin.

Deon helped the men lower the coffin into the narrow trench at his feet, then threw the first spadeful of muddy soil across the top of the box. He pulled a small tin soldier out of his pocket, a present Pieter had given him for his seventh birthday. He threw it down into the muddy waters of his brother’s final resting place. Then for a few moments he stood watching as the men from the funeral parlour began to cover the rectangular black box with earth.

Across the grave stood Deon’s children with their mother. Teresa had refused to speak to him, but he had managed to speak to each of the children - though that had only increased the pain. Until now they had always been his to see whenever he wanted to; now they were estranged from him. Later, when they were older, perhaps they would understand. Now the little boy and the little girl looked back at him across the grave with yearning in their eyes. What had their mother told them about him?

With Anna, Pieter’s girlfriend, Deon walked amongst the strange white blocks that lay in ordered rows across the greensward, heading towards the Maserati that lay parked under an oak tree near the cemetery gate. Deon was glad it was raining; the harsh heat of the highveld summer would have been out of keeping with the mood of the occasion. At least, he thought, he had children of his own, who would in some way mark a continuation of his family’s line.

He opened the passenger door for Anna, then got into the car with her. They sat watching the rain run down the windscreen. It was all over.

Deon knew that Pieter’s death was a warning to him, a clear message: Aschaar and Muller were on to him. But his reaction was completely the opposite of what they had no doubt intended; now he swore he would get them, whatever the cost, however long it took. As far as Deon was concerned, playing by the rules was over.

Bernard pulled out the massive file labelled ‘Project Zimbabwe’ and began to read through it yet again. Yes, the Russians were hard bargainers, he’d found that out negotiating with them over the price of gold and diamonds. Here, the subject under discussion was rather different: nothing less than the complete takeover of a country. He, and the Russians, with the help of the black African freedom fighters, would take over Rhodesia - Zimbabwe.

For the hundredth time, Bernard smiled to himself as he contemplated the folly of the British who were blindly expecting to have things all their own way and quite unaware that black African leaders did not want a Westminster democracy in Zimbabwe, or anything like it. Democracy - the whole concept made Bernard want to sneer. Power for the people. Who were the ‘people’ anyway? They never did anything to earn power, just followed one leader after another like a pack of lemmings. Security, warmth, and a good meal each day, if those were provided the ‘people’ demanded little else. In the plan Bernard had formulated the ‘people’ of Zimbabwe wouldn’t even get those basic things, which was one of the reasons why he found it so appealing.

Once he and the Russians had secured the new state of Zimbabwe, the next step would be alliance with Mozambique and the reopening of the Salisbury-to-Beira railway, so that they were no longer dependent on South Africa for exports and imports. Then, with full Soviet support, an all-out war could be waged on the Afrikaaner regime. They would bring South Africa to its knees. The new government would be headed by a protege of Bernard’s, the country’s entire mineral wealth under his control. The new government would be able to seize anything it wanted: banks, farms, public utilities . . . whatever took their fancy. With a Marxist system of government in force, rather than a democracy, there wouldn’t be any trouble with trade unions, either, or a welfare state taxing businesses to the hilt. And there’d be Soviet arms and ammunition to crush any opposition. The whole scenario promised Bernard almost limitless wealth and power. He would supply the new state of Zimbabwe with the expertise to run its mines and industry, and in return he would gain increasing control. He would also be able to get anything he wanted out of the puppet government they would establish in South Africa.

Of course, some black politicians were certain to cut up rough. The trick would be either to have them removed by an unfortunate series of accidents, or to elevate them to a position of power where, however principled, every man has his price. The white skilled people in the new state of Zimbabwe would have to be protected. Since the indigenous peoples had not reached a high enough level of technical education to run the essential industries successfully, the white middle class would form the backbone of the economy. The last thing Bernard wanted was to have to import skilled white labour from Europe and America because the Rhodesian whites had been scared away. Imported white labour usually demanded payment in American dollars and wanted lengthy, expensive contracts.

Bernard turned the pages of the fat file. Of course, as any fool could see, the first major step in ‘Project Zimbabwe’ must be the combining of the two countries of Rhodesia and Mozambique into one unified state. This could not happen overnight. First the army of the new Zimbabwe would have to be built up to formidable proportions, then it could invade and take over Mozambique. In this part of the plan, too, Bernard could see opportunities for profit. Mozambique had a desperately poor economy. After a few years of Soviet-style community farming in both Mozambique and Zimbabwe both countries would inevitably experience a shortage of essential foodstuffs and would have to buy food from outside sources. Then Bernard would lend them money for this purpose, and in return they would hand over to him what little control of the economy he did not have already.