Wings of the Morning Page 12

  On the Qantas jet, Alexa was in a state of gibbering collapse. They drugged her and cuddled her, but had neither the knowledge nor medication to provide lasting assistance. Peter Bushell took a critical personal decision. At Karachi, where they handed over to another crew, he chose to leave Keith Curtis and the rest. He continued as a passenger in the aircraft, watching over Alexa and sitting by her all the way to Sydney.

  Conrad Aveling left the plane in Singapore, on plan and on time. He was horrified by Alexa’s condition but he had no skills to help her now, and no one to whom he could turn. He had to trust Peter Bushell. He said nothing of the Bahrain incident to his brother officers and the men of his unit. He did, however, take the first opportunity to ring home. He had one task for his mother and she acted urgently. Lady Aveling got hold of David Heaven to say he must tell Alexa’s parents that she was in Australia, to be contacted through Peter Bushell — number provided. The Labarres were mystified but quick to comply. Two days later, they flew from Paris to Sydney.

  Kingston Offenbach also spoke to David, and filled in the background of his chance involvement. He would not say more, except to comment on the providence which had placed Connie in the right place at the right time.

  And in France, in deep Dordogne countryside at the end of February, Thierry Cestac was feeling well fed and rested. He returned to Paris and to his house in the Latin Quarter. There was no message from Georges Eboli. There was no message from Alexa Labarre. He contacted his banker and confirmed that no final payment from Bahrain had reached his account. Cestac was nothing if not a realist. The absence of news spoke volumes. Something had gone wrong or just maybe he had been double crossed by Mr Riaz. Whichever, he could do little more. He might get the chance of revenge on Riaz, but the girl and Eboli were gone forever. It was a pity about the money.

  DAVID HEAVEN — 1970

  November of that same year was a watershed month for David. He spent nearly three weeks in southern Africa, starting in Mauritius where he signed a contract with a sugar cane company before travelling on to Johannesburg. There, he went to see Piet Soldemeyer as planned.

  Soldemeyer was a middle man, his outfit even smaller than Kirchoff and Son. He had good connections in the mining sector and he wanted supply out of Europe for materials handling equipment. The introduction to him had come via a mysterious figure from Sol’s past, a man called Gluchamheig whom he had met ‘on a train’. This Glucky was in costume jewellery but had a chance to get into industrial diamonds, importing from Piet Soldemeyer — except he knew nothing of import/export which is where Kirchoff and Son came in. There was huge volume and money at stake, hence Sol’s excitement.

  Piet turned out to be about David’s age, maybe a few years older, and they got on well enough together. They spent a couple of days talking through the basic business, eating and drinking together in the evenings and David had started to wonder when they were going to get to the diamonds when Piet had broken it to him over a late night whisky. It was all to do with people way up north in South West Africa.

  ‘I’ve set it all up for you, man. You can check it out for yourself and report back properly to your boss and the diamond buyer guy, Glucky isn’t it?’

  David nodded as his eyes wandered round the crowded, noisy club in which the thumping music was keeping their conversation discreet.

  ‘Only take a week or maybe less. Meanwhile, I’ll be seeing the mining guys here so we can talk some turkey when you get back and then you’ll be flying on home with a fistful of orders.’

  He didn’t wait for a reply, getting up to push his way to the bar for more drinks. David wasn’t going to argue. He was excited by the prospect of this trip into the unknown and anyway; it sounded necessary if he was going to get any further with this diamond business by which Sol was setting such store.

  Next day, he took a flight from Johannesburg to Windhoek. He was met by the character Piet had told him to expect, a great bull of a guy who introduced himself as Klaus Wallisch and took him to a small hotel for that night. Wallisch was taciturn on the short drive, saying that he would explain more during the long journey they had to make the following day. David should have a quick meal in the hotel and get an early night. He must be ready to leave at 6 am. David wasn’t. He woke at midnight in a muck sweat and knew he was going down with a fever. With luck, it wasn’t too bad, he told himself and nothing he hadn’t experienced many times before in Africa. He had pills and potions with him. He would just need fresh water and time in bed. They would be delayed, but too bad.

  That wasn’t the reaction of Wallisch when he crashed into his room at first light. He was in a fair state as he took in David’s condition and he made for an intimidating sight. With much swearing and frustration, he finally conceded that David could rest up for the day but warned they would have to drive all night to regain the schedule. He was calmer, however, when he returned in the early evening to find David better, but still pretty weak. Wallisch remained insistent that they had to go, but he gave David plenty of time to get his things together and he followed this with an outline brief as they sat over a cup of tea before leaving.

  Wallisch seemed surprised that Piet Soldemeyer had said so little. He was silent for a moment, then gave a grunt as he ran horny hard hands over his grizzled, clean shaven face and scalp before speaking with his heavy, Afrikaans accent. He gave David a concise background, concentrated on politics and mostly on SWAPO — the South-West Africa People’s Organization. It was loosely formed in late ’66, he explained, and had developed into a fully fledged guerrilla group with a clear agenda, nothing less than full independence from South Africa.

  ‘You can read all that in any library,’ said Wallisch, fixing David with his gimlet eye, ‘what you won’t find is how organised SWAPO is already, and how determined. The South Africans don’t want to launder their linen in public, but they’re fighting an increasingly tough war and the name of their game is to stop arms getting through to us. And I do mean ‘us’. SWAPO isn’t a Black African movement, it’s mixed race and I am myself a member of the Command Council, in charge of the north of this territory which will be called Namibia when we’ve won’.

  David felt a chill on his backbone which had nothing to do with fever. He realised that he was being given information which this man would kill to protect and Wallisch gave a bleak smile of understanding before continuing.

  ‘We’re expecting a long struggle. We’ve got the men, and we’ve got the women we need: we’ve all got commitment. But we have to keep chipping away. Right now, we’re just a thorn in the side of the South African defence force and we have to become a proper combatant. We can’t do that with hunting rifles and Bushmen blowpipes. We need some serious weapons which we can’t get from the South, but we can bring in from the East coast through friends in Zambia. Then there’s the money. If we could pay in blood, we’d manage. If we could pay in Rand, then not so hard: we can rob and extort enough. But that won’t do for you guys. We know you operate only for US dollars. So we started thinking and came up with another idea, and that’s why you’re here now, Mr Heaven: to meet the man who may be our partner and paymaster for us both.’

  David opened his mouth to respond. He was horrified: Wallisch clearly believed that Kirchoffs were is the arms supply business, and was acting, presumably, on information received from Gluchamheig via Piet Soldemeyer. David needed to put him right, but instantly he realised that he couldn’t do that. In that snap summary from Wallisch, he’d been given facts which put him at big risk. If he tried to take himself out of the picture, well, that’s exactly what would happen to him. So he temporised, asking how Piet came into this.

  Wallisch allowed himself another brief speech.

  ‘I was born in the Steilrand Mountains,’ he said, ‘outside a small town called Okauwe. My family trekked up over a hundred years ago. I took on running our farm when I’d just turned fifteen with my grandfather to guide me. My father was burned to death in his tank with Rommel at Torbruk. The So
ldemeyers too have history in these parts. Piet’s brother ranches outside Rundu near the Caprivi Strip which gives access to Botswana and Zambia. The property can support only one family so Piet went south to live in Johannesburg. Piet’s a fully paid up member of SWAPO so he’s valuable to us as a resident in the heart of the enemy camp. But he has to be careful. If discovered by the authorities, he’d be straight down to the interrogation centre and he wouldn’t come out alive.’

  David made to ask more but Wallisch cut him off.

  ‘Time to go. I’ll tell you more on the way.’

  There were thirteen in the party, including David. Wallisch had two other whites with him and nine blacks. All were armed to the teeth, and had little to say to David or to each other. They travelled in a ten ton ex-military truck, a Mercedes four wheel drive. One of the whites drove and David was put in the cab alongside him for the first stint. They made good time, heading just about due north. There was no tarmac outside Windhoek but the dirt road was wide and straight. There was hardly any other traffic and the driver slowed for nothing except to light another cigarette. There was no conversation.

  Promptly at midnight, they stopped for a break. Somebody brewed tea, there was a container of sandwiches and strips of biltong — dried meat. Four of the blacks, with help from the driver, got stuck into refuelling the truck from jerry cans. David wandered into the bush for a call of nature. No one took notice. There was nowhere to go. When he returned to the group, there was time for more conversation with Wallisch. They had a cup of coffee together, leaning against the front bumper of the truck as it stood foursquare in the middle of that dusty track.

  ‘We’re driving into Angola, Mr Heaven, and you should know something about what’s going on there. Portugal may still be running the country but there’s a resistance group now. It’s called UNITA and led by a man named Jonas Savimbi. He founded UNITA six years ago to rise against the Portuguese and win independence. Right now, he’s not achieving much more than to make himself a nuisance but he’s come a fair way in a short time. He’s built a following and quite an arsenal. He’s got most of this by ambushing the Portuguese military and plundering the Benguela railway which carries supplies, money and diamonds.

  ‘SWAPO and UNITA have things in common. Neither of us is after the territory of the other. We both want ownership of where we already live. We both need arms. Savimbi has plenty of money and can get more. But he has no supplier contacts and no one to train his people. As I’ve told you, we in SWAPO lack finance but we can guarantee supply and training. So there’s our deal. UNITA funds, SWAPO buys, delivers and trains. Savimbi is the bagman and you need to meet him.’

  The time had ticked round to 1 am. They climbed back in the truck for a further five hours, finishing on bush tracks and slower going. The other team were already at the meeting point. There were a few more of them, maybe two dozen in all, but scruffier and less well equipped. They had squashed into three old Peugeot pick ups and a Land Rover. The rendezvous was in a grassy depression and all around there was the same view clear to the horizon. Miles of empty bush land, no habitation, endless scrub waving in the breeze with a few stands of trees dotted about. David couldn’t even make out the track which had brought them in: he felt like a first explorer.

  The two groups stood looking at each other, about fifty yards apart. It seemed like a stalemate. At length, the door of the Land Rover opened and Jonas Savimbi emerged. It couldn’t have been anyone else. He was a big man, six three or four with a heavy build and the power of his personality was immediately obvious to David. He strode over with a broad grin on his face and gave a warm welcome to Klaus Wallisch. Then he turned to David, offering thanks for coming and apologies for the inconvenient location. The experience was surreal to David, standing there and thinking that charisma is an overworked word, but Jonas Savimbi had it in spades.

  They didn’t dally there for long. Savimbi was wearing a form of battle dress and he produced an immense cigar which he lit while Wallisch went through a weapons wish list which filled three foolscap pages, highlighting some items in a commentary to Savimbi and passing each page to David. It was easy to guess what was coming next. Savimbi fixed him with a magnetic stare as he spoke in perfect English.

  ‘Now Mr Heaven, please provide us with an estimate of the price of such a shipment.’

  David knew he dared not prevaricate and he replied confidently.

  ‘I need to do some detail work, of course, and it will depend on the means of payment, especially if we are talking diamonds. But I’d say between three and five million. US dollars.’

  There was no immediate reaction from either Savimbi or Wallisch. David just stood there, the pages of the shopping list hanging from his hand and the anxiety mounting at the gamble he was taking. In truth, he hadn’t a clue, didn’t even know the purpose of some items specified but he reckoned that he had to bluff it out. There was no way that he wanted to be returned to Wallisch, exposed as a fraud. He was remembering also what Wallisch had told him in advance. If first impressions rested well, Savimbi would invite him to his bush Headquarters for more discussion and would arrange for his journey back to South Africa.

  The seconds passed and David could feel the sweat break on his face. He willed himself to stand straight and still: his relief must have been palpable as Savimbi issued his invitation with a broad smile and a pat on the back.

  Wallisch was quick to depart with his men. He had a quick handshake for David, saying,

  ‘Good so far, and we’ll depend on your conversation at his camp. You won’t see me again, but go to Soldemeyer as soon as you get back to Jo’burg. He’ll be waiting for you and will know what to do next.’

  Then Savimbi walked David to his Land Rover and they left immediately, one of the pick ups in front and two behind. The bush grass was long and the vehicles much lower than the Mercedes truck, so David could see nothing except the narrow track which took them northwest and deeper into Angola. The journey took a couple of hours.

  Savimbi’s camp came as a surprise. It was bigger and better organised than David had expected, with a number of substantially built bungalows spread out at random. They stopped at one which was Savimbi’s house and office in one. It was brick built with a thatched roof and a wide veranda running all around. A water storage tank stood up behind it, and there were tended flower beds on either side of the steps running up to the front door over which was pinned a flag with the UNITA emblem. Inside was a large living room, a dining table placed centrally with armchairs and a couple of sofas scattered around. In one corner stood a huge desk which faced out towards the front door and Savimbi went straight to it. He motioned towards a corridor and David went down it to see bedrooms and a bathroom which was clean and reasonably equipped with towels and running cold water.

  He returned to find Savimbi talking to a visitor in khaki drills, sitting erect in one of the two upright visitors’ chairs arranged to face his desk. Savimbi waved a great paw to welcome David into the second chair and he found in front of him a tray with mugs, a jug of hot water, instant coffee, powered milk and sugar. He made his own while Savimbi and his lieutenant talked.

  That detail set the pattern for a long day of visitors appearing to sit and talk. Each conversation was terminated by an abrupt sweep of Savimbi’s right hand across his desk. That was the signal to leave. All those who came in were men, most in military dress, two together in civvies who seemed to be petitioners for something while all the others were there to report. There was one white man who left a small bag open at the throat to show diamonds.

  In the early afternoon, they ate a cold lunch together, served at the table by an elderly woman. They talked, but not a word about the possible business to be conducted. Instead, Savimbi spoke about his background, his childhood and education by missionaries, his time at medical school in Lisbon. David said little, listened much and made no enquiry as to what was to happen next. This seemed to pass the test.

  At about five thirty or so, w
ith sunset coming on, Savimbi dismissed his latest visitor and rose from his chair. He walked around from behind his desk and David tried to get up to join him but he was wobbling and put a hand on the desk top. Savimbi looked at him.

  ‘Wallisch mentioned that you were unwell on your journey. It’s not behind you yet. Get a good night’s rest before you go on. You’re welcome here and I’ve got medication.’

  David tried to argue but Savimbi cut him off, saying with a smile, ‘I know best. It is I who has the medical qualification.’

  So David went down the corridor to one of the empty bedrooms, popped a couple of pills and fell gratefully into bed. He slept for nearly fifteen hours straight. The house seemed quiet when he woke around 9 am, but after showering he walked through into the main room to find a scene almost unchanged from the previous evening. Savimbi was sitting behind his big desk and engaged in yet a further conference, this time with an African smartly turned out in suit and tie with a pigskin briefcase standing beside him. Savimbi broke off to welcome David, explaining that the African had also stayed overnight and was shortly to return to Luanda. Then he waved David to the table which was set for breakfast while he returned to his conversation in Portuguese. David sat and waited until an excellent meal was produced by the same elderly woman. As he finished, so also did the session around the desk and the African came to say a polite goodbye before Savimbi accompanied him to the door.

  His host returned, ‘a gentleman that one, and a rising star. But he’ll have to be patient in waiting for his chance. Just like me.’

  David, with a mug of coffee to his lips, let his eyes frame the question and Savimbi smiled.

  ‘Him? He’s from Mozambique where he leads FRELIMO which has the same sort of ideals and objectives as we do here. We have very few opportunities to meet so we have to make the most of them. He and I have been talking for most of the night. His name is Samora Machel.’