Authors: Jeremy Duns
‘On ice!’ she said. ‘Christ, you really are a pair of shameless little crooks. It took a while to figure out, listening to Proshin and Manning yapping away, but we got there
eventually. I thought it was about ideology at first. This whole thing – the summit, the kidnapping of Charamba’s daughter – but that’s only part of it, isn’t it?
It’s also about money. And metal. Ferrochrome is used to make stainless steel, and you need lots and lots of it to build fighter jets, and tanks, and missiles. Rather unfortunately,
thirty-three per cent of the world’s chrome is in the Soviet Union. But seven per cent is in Rhodesia, most of it from mines Celia owns. Sanctions be damned! And, of course, as Chief
it’s been terribly easy for Sandy to make the right introductions in the defence industry. I take it the Americans are a major client, which is why Harry Bradley was invited round.’
The Harmigans didn’t respond.
‘Yes, I thought so. But, of course, your business is largely dependent on Ian Smith’s regime. The day the black Africans take over this country you’ll have a serious problem.
It’s a safe bet that they won’t want white foreigners exploiting their natural resources, and they’ll requisition the mines from you. So you need this place to be ruled by whites
for as long as possible.’
She walked over to the table and took a chair, crossing her legs in a parody of Sandy’s style. ‘For all these reasons, Major Campbell-Fraser’s plan was rather up your street,
wasn’t it? Yes, Geoffrey told me about him, too. It turns out the leader of the Selous Scouts served in Malaya. That seemed a little too much of a coincidence. The operation must have cost a
pretty penny, but Christ, what a prize – the guarantee of white rule in Rhodesia for decades to come. So here you both are, Sandy pretending to be on Service business keeping an eye on the
summit, but in fact both of you waiting for Charamba to do your bidding and deliver the goods. I presume his daughter and grandson are being held somewhere on the premises? And then, when the
summit is over, you were going to toast all that lovely cash continuing to flow into your bank accounts, before ordering them killed. Bit of a blip in your planning that Paul Dark got involved. I
suppose nobody knew his identity. The best-laid plans, as they say. You must have been livid when you found out. It was like Gadlow all over again, only worse. Dark knew
far
too much. He
might tell the wrong person what had really happened in Nigeria, for example. Yes, he’s a Soviet agent, but he could provide a lot of convincing information about it. And while Wilson was
fairly angry when you told him Dark had tried to bump him off, he would have been rather more so if he was informed that a cabal of fascists in the Service had been behind it. So you wanted Dark
out of the way, to become as dead as he had been before. Only you needed deniability, as you had done with Gadlow. So this time you used an ‘alongsider’, Collins. Who was he? Someone
else from your Malayan days – or a Selous Scout? Both, perhaps. And you wanted him to kill Dark very quietly, which is why you didn’t want the Belgians involved once you figured out he
was heading their way.’ She stopped and looked up. ‘How am I doing?’
Sandy Harmigan laughed quietly. It was a dry sound, like leaves rustling. ‘So you’re the great spy-catcher now, is that it?’ Rachel winced: in an intimate moment she had once
told him about her childhood fascination with puzzle-books and Oreste Pinto. ‘Well, I don’t know why I’m surprised – I always said you were an exceptional analyst. Collins
was a Selous Scout. And yes, I knew Roy Campbell-Fraser in the Far East: “C” Squadron of the Malayan Scouts were mostly Rhodesians. A very good soldier, and we had many adventures
together. Gadlow’s assassin was a young man by the name of Udah Atnam. I worked with his father and saved his life one night, rescuing him from a Communist camp in the jungle. Udah was
repaying his father’s debt. But broadly speaking, you got it all. Most impressive, especially as you had to collate it all from three unreliable sources. But analysis is useless without an
operational plan, and I’m not really sure what yours is. How are you intending to stop Charamba from doing our bidding and delivering the goods, as you put it?’
Hope sat up in the bed, all her senses primed. She looked across to the cot and in the moonlight streaming through the curtains saw the rise and fall of Ben’s chest. Her
shoulders lowered in relief. But what had woken her? Her eyes turned to the far wall.
The figure of a man stood in the doorway. He placed a finger to his lips and grinned.
‘Shhh,’ said Peter Voers. ‘Be careful not to wake the boy.’
He began walking towards her, his hands already unbuckling his belt.
Rachel stared at Sandy Harmigan, momentarily stunned by his response. Running over the scenario in her mind on the flight she had expected him to deny it to the end, not flatly
confess like this. And she had expected to fly into a rage, to scream and kick and shout and throw things. But instead she merely felt emptied out and numb, and she now understood why Celia had
been so cold when she had seen her arriving at her front door. It was the suspicion of betrayal that drove you mad – once confirmed, it felt like it had always been there.
‘You’re going to stop this,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re going to release Charamba’s daughter and grandson and then you’re going to contact the train and
tell whoever you have in there – Campbell-Fraser, I suppose – that it’s over.’ She nodded at the telephone sitting on the desk. ‘Then you’re going to fly back to
London on that fancy jet of yours and present yourselves at Carlton Gardens, where you’ll both sign full confessions.’
Celia Harmigan laughed. ‘Have you gone mad? Why should we do any of that?’
Rachel nodded. ‘You’ve no choice. Once you’ve confessed, you’ll both be arrested for conspiring against the state – that’s what your little gang of fascists
have been doing – but your trial will be held in secret. Your assets will be stripped, and you’ll both be imprisoned . . .’
‘If this is an attempt to convince—’
‘I’ve not finished,’ Rachel said coldly. ‘You’ll both be imprisoned for a few years, but then you will be freed. You and the other members of The Spear will be kept
under observation, but your reputations will remain intact. You won’t be invited to the Queen’s garden parties any more, but you’ll be free to live as you wish.’ She
steepled her hands together, a gesture of Sandy’s she had picked up. ‘But if you
don’t
co-operate now, the situation will be very much worse. If you fail to turn up at
Carlton Gardens in the next couple of days, or if anything happens to me, Edmund will pull out all the stops. Interpol will issue a red notice for the two of you, wanted for sanctions busting,
kidnap and the murder of a British civil servant in Malaysia in 1969. Your photographs and descriptions will appear in newspapers and bulletins across the world, from the
Cape Times
to the
World Service. No expense or effort will be spared to find you. Wherever you run, you’ll eventually be arrested, brought back to England and tried on those charges. But the trial will be
public, and in the meantime we’ll have leaked as much as we can about your activities to the press.’
Harmigan shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you. That would only damage the Service.’
‘Not as much as you’ve done already. Edmund’s prepared to ride this out. We will simply wipe our hands of you. “One rotten apple” and all that. Your reputation in
particular will be utterly destroyed – especially after we strip you of your Military Cross.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘You can’t do that,’ Celia said. ‘There’d be outrage. He’s one of the country’s most loved war heroes.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘The
film
character is, yes. But Sandy isn’t Dirk Bogarde. Anyway, you know how the press are – fame simply makes the fall all the more
newsworthy.’ She looked at Sandy and gave a rueful, almost pitying smile. ‘I should have spotted it earlier, really. I happened to mention
Safe Conduct
was on the telly to my
brother one afternoon and he was strangely dismissive. “Oh, that old war hero.” I thought he was making a crack about Sandy’s age, but he wasn’t. Danny works with war
archives at the Public Record Office and he’d read the correspondence of the Military Cross Committee, including the discussions around the awarding of your medal in 1943. Two of the
committee’s members were extremely reluctant to believe your conveniently unverifiable story of derring-do in the back streets of Saint-Nazaire, pointing out that the intelligence you’d
presented from it on returning home had proven faulty. One of the committee, a general no less, was convinced you’d been intending to desert before you had been picked up by your
colleagues.’
Sandy Harmigan’s jaw was locked. ‘But they were overruled. I was awarded the medal.’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel. ‘They were overruled by men who went on to join The Spear. We have the names.’ She let it sink in. ‘So you see, your memoir, the film, your name
. . . all of it would be in tatters. Even if you somehow found a place where nobody reads the newspapers, you’d be living on the run, never able to show your faces in polite society again and
in constant fear of arrest and lifelong imprisonment. And you’d be remembered not as a hero but as a coward and a traitor to your country.’ She spread her hands out on the desk.
‘It’s your choice.’
A low keening sound erupted from Celia Harmigan. When she looked up her make-up had smeared horribly, her face like a hideous Noh mask that had collapsed in on itself. Sandy seemed numbed, his
eyes glazed.
The desk started to vibrate and all three of them jumped. The telephone was ringing.
As if waking from a dream, Harmigan reached across to pick up the receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Sandy,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘It’s Paul Dark here. I want my family back.’
‘I’m begging you. Don’t.’
Hope’s voice was barely audible, and her eyes were flickering between Voers and Ben in the cot. He was still asleep, but for how long?
‘You owe me,’ Voers said. ‘I’ve waited long enough.’
He leaned over the bed and placed a large hand against her cheek. His skin was rough, calloused. She knew that in a moment he would bring his other arm across to pin her in place, but also that
if she struggled she would certainly wake Ben. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind . . .
She felt Voers’ chest drop onto her, heavier than she had been anticipating, and for a moment she was winded. Then the bed frame started to shake and her ears were filled with a horrendous
cracking sound. She realised his weight had lifted from her and opened her eyes.
Joshua Ephibe was standing over Voers’ body, which now lay half-twisted off the bed. The front of his head was smashed into the corner of the wall, and a pool of dark blood was leaking
from it. More blood dripped from the floor and her eyes followed it up to the machine-pistol in Ephibe’s hands.
‘I saw him come in here. Listen, we need to go. Bring your son.’
She stared up at him, not understanding.
He leaned down and whispered into her face, his eyes wide.
‘I can help you get out of here. But it needs to be now. Hurry!’
She nodded dully, then sat up and reached for her clothes.
In Car 49, the delegates sat frozen in their chairs, most with sweat pouring from their faces as they watched the second hand creeping inexorably around the face of the clock
on the wall.
Two minutes and twenty-five seconds had gone by since Ian Smith and Matthew Charamba had left the carriage. Through the smashed window behind Paul Dark, the roar of the falls seemed to become
louder by the second as everyone strained their ears for any sound of the two men.
Dark looked down at the object in his hand. It was a small ugly piece of grey plastic encasing some wires, but it could kill everyone in the room. He lifted the cover to reveal the switch
beneath. Had Smith decided to call his bluff? Could he have a pre-arranged signal with the security men on the bridge to indicate there was a problem?
He glanced back up at the clock. Thirty seconds left.
‘You have to give them more time!’ one of the delegates blurted out, his voice strained with desperation.
Dark ignored him. Twenty-nine seconds.
There was a screeching sound as the door slid open and Smith and Charamba entered the carriage. Groans of relief echoed around the room.
Dark replaced the cover over the switch. ‘All okay?’ he asked Charamba.
‘Yes. Everyone’s now vacated the bridge.’
‘Any funny business?’
‘No. Did you make the call?’
Dark nodded. ‘They should be here within the next two hours.’
He told Smith to resume his seat at the table, which he did without speaking. Dark realised his hands were slicked with sweat and that his muscles were in a spasm from keeping so still. He
called Gibo over and handed him the detonator again, then took a napkin from the table and wiped his hands with them, letting the circulation return to normal.
Something moved in his peripheral vision and he jerked his head up. It was Charamba. He had walked past the position he had been in before and was now marching determinedly towards him. His eyes
were bulging, and they were fixed on the man seated directly next to Dark: Roy Campbell-Fraser.
‘Professor—’
‘I know what I’m doing.’ Charamba reached Campbell-Fraser, drew the pistol from his belt and placed it against the back of the Rhodesian’s neck. Campbell-Fraser
didn’t flinch, but his nostrils flared fractionally.
‘Killing me won’t get your family back.’
‘He’s right,’ said Dark, taking a step forward so he could lead Charamba away. ‘We discussed this.’
Charamba glared at him and flexed his gun hand in warning. ‘That was before I’d seen the bastard in the flesh.’ He looked down at Campbell-Fraser again. ‘I just want to
make sure of this. You admit you planned the kidnapping of my daughter and grandchild?’
Dark took a breath. It sounded ominously like he was reading him his last rites.